


Like Real People Do

by moodlighting



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Best Friends, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Past Character Death, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 18:45:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 58,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3498971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodlighting/pseuds/moodlighting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The summer is an engram of particular moments now, hazy episodes that play behind Harry’s eyes as he drifts off to sleep with an arm holding him close. All of those days of summer will blur together soon, but Harry will always remember them in his senses. They’ll be coconut-scented sunscreen and burnt cinnamon toast, grass stains on knees and flour-streaked hair, blue raspberry tongues and citrus sticky fingers, sunshine freckles and soft hands, warm tan skin and seaglass eyes. Harry will always remember those days of summer as the time he fell in love with Louis Tomlinson.</p><p>But he doesn’t know that yet.</p><p>AU. Harry is Louis' soulmate but Louis isn't Harry's - it takes Harry a while to figure it all out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, my _pièce de résistance_. I don't know if you're supposed to declare your own _pièce de résistance_ but if it were to be anything, it would be this. This was the first piece of writing I'd done that wasn't an academic paper in about nine years, and being able to work on it really got me through my last semester of college. It was so much fun to write and it is possibly the most self-indulgent thing I've ever done. I can only hope that you'll enjoy it as much as me!
> 
> A Massive Thank You™ goes out to my two betas, who truly saved me from myself and bolstered my confidence when I was the only one reading this. I owe you. Another enormous thanks to my collaborator, the effervescent [slashter](http://slashter.tumblr.com/), who contributed such beautiful art to my simple story.
> 
> The title is taken from the Hozier song of the same name, which I probably listened to every day for four months while I wrote this. Additional credit goes to One Direction for some passing lyric mentions - I may have abused my source material a little too much.
> 
> Finally, seeing as I made all of this up just to amuse myself, everything that follows is completely false.

The sinking feeling that’s been troubling Harry’s stomach all day is barely beginning to disappear when the small string of bells hanging on the handle of the bakery door tinkle merrily. Harry is just pulling his apron over his head and hanging it on the hook as the clock reaches one. It’s a Sunday, a day known for sinking feelings, but Harry has never been bothered by them before. He’s always at the bakery by himself on Sundays, opening early enough for the church crowd to pick up donuts to share before services start and staying open long enough to catch them again on their way home, buying croissants and loaves of bread for lunch. Harry is usually happy to do it, but today, with that bottomless sinking feeling, he had been looking forward to leaving.

The bells tinkle again as the door slams shut behind a new customer. Harry’s stomach sinks even lower when the sound is followed by the words, “Oh shit, it’s you.”

Harry frowns. “I’m sorry?” he asks, turning. The customer is a boy, or a man – Harry hasn’t decided when that shift is supposed to happen, really – with a sharp face and a mess of brown hair held back by a black cotton headband. He’s wearing loose joggers and a hoodie, like he'd just rolled out of bed to come to the bakery.

He has soft eyes too, Harry notes. Soft eyes that crinkle in the corners as he approaches the counter and says, “Bloody hell am I glad you’re still open,” before he launches into his tale, gesturing with purpose. “So get this. It’s my little sisters’ birthday, right, and I’m in desperate need of some cupcakes. Which I had conveniently forgotten about ‘til I woke up this morning but that hardly matters, they deserve fresh cupcakes anyway. The girls wanted ones with purple frosting, and I remembered seeing some of those in the bakery ‘round my corner. So I stop by this shop next to my flat but it’s _closed_ when I get there! _Even though_ their listed hours say one o’clock. I’ve passed your fine establishment a few times, never been in, but I race all the way over here – which is why I’m a bit out of breath, by the way – and look who I find!” He points at Harry, eyes going impossibly softer. “My soulmate.”

Harry’s ears start to ring as if a bomb has just detonated in the middle of the bakery. It’s 1:02 now, and he should be heading home already, all Sunday sinking feelings left behind. But Harry’s stomach fucking drops. His brain stutters to a halt before firing up in a whirlwind of thoughts he couldn’t catch even if he wanted to. This can’t possibly be happening.

There’s a long silence in which the boy just watches him, waiting for his response, before Harry manages to croak out, “There must’ve been some kind of mistake.”

The customer scoffs at the apparent outrage. “Well I should say so, that shop ought to change the hours they’ve got posted on their website if they don’t intend on following through with them.” He chuckles to himself before continuing quietly, “Though I suppose I should thank them, really, because I feel like I’ve been looking for you forever. Funny how fate works out sometimes.”

With the way the boy’s eyes are twinkling, still crinkled in the corners, it seems like he can’t quite believe his luck. Harry knows the feeling. Harry can’t believe his dumb, rotten luck. He aggressively shakes his head, hoping his face doesn’t look quite as stricken as he feels in that moment. “No – no, you don’t understand, there has to have been a mistake. I’ve already got a soulmate.”

And that is so obviously not the response the boy had been anticipating. His hands fall limply to his sides, a frown replacing the crinkles by his eyes with lines on his forehead. He visibly deflates, some of his brash, quick-spoken bravado vanishing at Harry’s words.

“Oh,” he whispers. "What?"

“I’m sorry, but I think you’ve got me mixed up with someone else,” Harry responds slowly.

He definitely doesn’t like the way the customer seems to have been shocked into silence now, his vulnerable _I feel like I’ve been looking for you forever_ ripped out from under him like a rug. Harry’s eyes dart around the bakery, looking for some way to relieve the awkward tension that has suddenly filled the room. It’s nearly stifling already. Harry notices the white-knuckled death grip he has on the counter and releases his hands. They’re shaking slightly as he flexes them, getting some feeling back. It looks like he’s physically grasping for a way to get _out_ of this situation. Everything feels like its happening in slow motion.

His eyes shift back to the customer, who looks equally as lost as Harry, staring at him blankly. His eyes are still soft but not quite as light. Harry hates that he took away some of this boy’s light. Diverting his gaze to the glass case of pastries next to the counter, Harry’s eyes land on the cupcakes he’d finished frosting earlier that morning out of boredom. He never usually makes cupcakes on Sundays, but the church crowd had been slower than usual. Summer was just beginning, so maybe Sunday school was over and everyone felt like they had less moral obligation to attend. Harry doesn’t know. He shouldn’t have even opened the bakery today.

The cupcakes are lavender.

“Um, well…anyway,” Harry breaks the silence tentatively, cringing at his less than smooth transition. “I uh, happen to have a dozen cupcakes here, if you’re still interested?” He doesn’t want to force his cupcakes on this guy after Harry has clearly crushed his hopes, probably broke his heart if what he thought about Harry was actually true.

Harry had been quick to deny what he'd heard at first, but somewhere amongst his wildly racing thoughts he had managed to logically consider what exactly was happening. It didn’t seem quite real. It was impossible, he was certain of that. Harry knew the feeling of finding, of being found; the tingling in your fingertips, the sudden release you feel in your whole body, as if you’d been anxiously waiting for something and didn’t even know it until you didn’t need to worry anymore, the floating, the easiness of it all. He remembered it well, and it was an impossible feeling to deny, finding your soulmate. It wasn’t something to joke about, so if this boy in front of him called Harry his soulmate, it was probably because he felt like a balloon that had just had its string cut. Because what he said was true. Harry should be feeling the same elation. But Harry doesn’t really feel anything besides the strain in his shoulders as the clock crawls toward 1:04, and his pressing need to _leave_. It couldn’t be true because no one has two soulmates.

“They’re sorta purple I guess, and I just did them this morning, so they should still be fresh for your sisters,” Harry continues nervously, moving to take the tray of cupcakes out of the glass case and presenting them to the customer.

When the boy doesn’t respond, Harry’s anxiety skyrockets. He hopes he didn’t _break_ him or something with his kneejerk rejection. He clears his throat. “I know you ran all the way here and everything, but I do leave at one…”

He trails off as the boy physically shakes himself out of his shock, looking over the cupcakes quickly and giving Harry a strained smile. “Of course, sorry for keeping you! I’ll definitely take them.”

Harry nods and turns away to box up the cupcakes, letting out a silent breath of relief. Behind him the boy watches the floor in silence, fidgeting with the pocket of his hoodie. Harry’s glad he doesn’t approach the soulmate subject again, though he can’t really blame him for not trying now. Harry hadn’t been very delicate. He places the cupcakes neatly in the box, taking care not to mess up the lavender swirls, before closing it and tying his signature bow around the box. The current spool of ribbon happens to be lavender too, with cream polka dots. How convenient. He turns to poke around on the till and offers the boy his total. The boy gives him the exact amount of money and then takes his receipt, completing one of the most uncomfortable transactions Harry has ever experienced. Neither one of them is looking at each other and the air stays heavy with the words they aren’t saying.  _What are we even supposed to say?_ Harry thinks. He’s sure this situation never happens. Actually, he can’t think of a time it has _ever_ happened. The matches aren’t wrong.

Giving Harry a nod in thanks, the boy picks up his box and hurries to leave. The string of bells on the doorknob ring again but before he can slip out the door, Harry calls out, in what must be his third apology in about as many minutes, “Hey, I really am sorry.”

And then he’s gone, the door slamming shut and the bells quieting down behind him. Harry is left with a ticking clock, an empty cupcake tray, and a world of confusion. In the aftershocks of the encounter he mindlessly goes about closing, flipping around the OPEN sign in the window, counting out the till, making sure all of the fridge doors are shut, especially the one in the left corner of the kitchen that keeps beeping at him, flicking off the light in the glass case – he’ll deal with the day-olds tomorrow – and turning off the lights in the bakery. It’s 1:17 when he finally locks the door behind him, hops on his bike, and begins the ride home. Harry doesn’t know how it hasn’t hit bottom yet, but his stomach still feels like it’s sinking.

> <

No one is home when Harry kicks his worn boots into the shoe pile by the door, placing his keys on the kitchen counter. No one apart from his cat Calliope, that is, but she certainly doesn’t stretch out of whatever patch of sunlight she’s lounging in to come and greet him. His half-finished cup of tea is still sitting on the counter where he’d left it behind as he rushed out of the house at 5:20 that morning. He’s glad the cat didn’t knock it on the ground while he was gone. That was thoughtful of her. There are dirty plates in the sink and pots and pans from last night’s dinner waiting for him on the stovetop, so instead of flopping on the couch for the nap he’d been longing to take up until the boy had shown up, Harry tries to tidy up. Not because he wants to – he’d be happy to let those dishes crust over a bit more – but because it helps to keep his mind off things.

He resolutely does not think about the boy from the bakery, or the rush of memories that the encounter with him had brought back to the surface. He definitely doesn’t think about what it was like when he found his soulmate, all of the emotions he’d seen playing out on the boy’s face that he’d once experienced. He doesn’t think about _any_ details from the day he found his match. He doesn’t think about Eli much at all, as a general consideration for his well-being. Niall often wonders if that’s a good practice but Harry always brushes him off. It’s worked well enough so far. Instead, he thinks about his regular customers that came in today, and the grocery list he needs to write up, and the new danish recipe he’s considering for the bakery that he found on the Pinterest account he only pretends to be completely indifferent about. He texts Gemma and his mum like he always does, sends a single emoji to both Niall and Ed to get a conversation started, and wonders how busy Liam is in London. He sends an emoji to him too, not really expecting a reply.

Harry plugs his phone into the speaker system and bops around the house to his playlist while he goes about his chores, belting out the songs as loud as he likes, gyrating his hips as terribly as he can. He throws an arm out to Calliope and serenades her when he finds her lounging in the sunny window seat. She only blinks her golden eyes at him in response, twisting around onto her back until Harry gives her tummy attention.

When the house is clean again, it’s already too late to waste his exhaustion on a nap. Harry has to be at the bakery at half five tomorrow morning too, so he can’t afford to not go to bed early. Instead of curling up on the couch, he hunches over his piano and runs his fingers up and down the keys, warming up with a few scales. The top of the piano is scattered with loose pages of lined music paper half filled in with notes and old songbooks Harry found at charity shops, hymnals and lesson books and collections of popular music from two decades ago. Harry has a leather journal filled with thoughts and poems waiting to be turned into lyrics, and he’d splurged a couple of weeks ago to get the piano tuned, so lately he’s been trying to work out the chords to the song he’s had stuck in his head for what must be months now. He’s only got a handful of bars so far, but there’s potential there that has him excited.

When he inevitably gets stuck in the fourteenth measure, Harry heats up some leftover chicken pesto pasta from the previous night and turns on the news. Unfortunately, the world seems to be filled with almost as much unrest as Harry is, no matter how much he’s decidedly _not thinking about it_. He continues to flip through the channels for a few hours, nursing beers that go warm long before he finishes them. When he’s finally had enough, he takes an indulgently long shower, throws on a pair of boxers, brushes his teeth, and climbs into bed. It’s still early evening but that’s late enough for Harry to head to bed. The worst part about working at the bakery during the summer is that he always needs to be asleep before the sun sets. It seems like such a waste. At least by now he’s trained himself to be able to sleep without the total darkness he’d needed in uni. Summer nights always have Harry sparing a passing thought to moving to Alaska. He could sleep there too, when the sun never sets.

It’s not until after he’s refreshed his Twitter feed at least a dozen times, set an alarm, placed his phone facedown on the nightstand and rolled over that Harry realizes he’s been absentmindedly running his palm over the ship tattoo on his arm since he climbed into bed. With a start he snatches his hand away, hurriedly shoving it under the cool pillows on the opposite side of the bed, like he could forget he’d touched it at all if his hand was out of sight. He wonders if he’s been doing that all day without noticing. He hopes not. Even with all of his efforts to distract himself and keep his mind carefully guarded from straying thoughts, Harry still couldn’t help himself from unconsciously reaching out to the idea. And now, in the quiet of his room, with the fading twilight leaking in through the windows and no more distractions available, Harry can’t help but think.

And he can’t help but think that what he should have told the boy in the bakery was that he _used_ to have a soulmate.

He can’t help but think that his house isn’t supposed to be empty when he gets home from work. That the opposite side of the bed isn’t supposed to be cold. Eli had filled their home with so much life and warmth that now – without him – things felt drained, washed out. Harry can’t help but think back to three years ago, to the moment he and life as he had known it had fallen apart. He can’t help but think about the year after, when his mum and sister and Niall and Liam had worked so carefully to piece him back together. And Harry too; he’d worked so hard to pull himself out of his grief, to find stability and consolation in existence again, even in the face of tragedy. But Eli had been his soulmate, and it was hard to become whole again with half of himself missing. Eli had given Harry so much joy and vivacity that in his absence, things are stagnant.

Harry is not unhappy. Half together, he’s a little off balance, but he’s not unhappy in his life. He has his friends, his family, the bakery, and everything that fills him with the contentment that at one time he thought he’d never feel again. Sometimes though, when he really lets himself think about it, Harry is angry, raging against the machine that gave him a soulmate and then ripped him away before they really had any time together at all. Angry that others spend their whole lives together. Angry that he’s younger than people who still haven’t found their match and he’s already alone. Angry that he didn’t have a _choice_. Angry that people can only love once; are given one chance at love and if that goes wrong, they’re left with nothing. Why couldn’t they just fall in love with whomever they liked, whenever they liked, however many times they liked? Where the soulmate matches had once reassured him in their finality, Harry now had resentment. The matches felt systematic, and cold, and here he is, empty at the end of it all. He’s constricted by the laws of the universe, left with a house to himself, a cold bed, and a used-up heart.

Now, Harry is also angry at the _audacity_ of the universe, mocking him by sending a boy into his bakery to call him his soulmate again. “Have you forgotten about soulmates yet Harry?” the world seemed to be asking. “Well here’s a reminder. Sorry that yours didn’t work out and now you’re alone forever.” Not only is it punishing and unfair to Harry, it’s not fair to the boy either. Even if Harry has to be alone, it’s downright cruel to leave this other boy to the same fate, with a one-sided tether to a boy who can’t give him what he's been promised his whole life. The universe had a twisted sense of humor, and Harry had stopped laughing a long time ago.

Time might heal all wounds, but that does not mean they don’t stay sore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _For the record:_ I was writing this fic long before Eli the Steal My Girl chimp came along, and I was not about to let a monkey ruin my ~vision. So it's only happenstance that the names are the same. Though it was a trip hearing the real One Direction talking about an Eli. Carry on.


	2. Chapter Two

Harry doesn’t mention the customer to Ed, or Niall, or Gemma, or his mum. He lets all thoughts of the boy float far away to where they will no longer concern him. But somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry knows he’ll see him again. People always wander back into the bakery after the first time they stop in, and Harry prides himself on that. A job well done. That’s not the reason the boy would be back, of course, though Harry is certain his cupcakes had been good.

It happens a lot later than Harry might have expected, on the Thursday following their first encounter. He’s sweeping up the front after the lunch rush, bent over near the entrance with the dustpan when the door swings open, the handle and that fucking string of bells nearly hitting him in the face. Startled, Harry clambers up off the floor, dust pile scattering, and comes face to face with the soft-eyed boy from last Sunday.

“Oh shit!" the boy exclaims, eyebrows arching. "It's you."

He takes a step away from Harry and lets the door fall shut behind him.

Harry chuckles at the familiar words. “We’ve really got to stop meeting like this,” he says lowly.

Then he freezes, immediately wishing he could snatch the words from the air and shove them back into his silly mouth. Harry doesn’t know what possessed him to even say that given the misfortune of their last meeting, the sour feelings it left behind. They both wince at the same time as Harry’s words settle around them. Their second encounter doesn’t appear to be shaping up much better than the first.

“Erm, uh…I’m sorry, I didn’t really mean –” Harry stammers, feeling his cheeks heat up. _Jesus, you’re his soulmate and you tell him you’ve got to stop meeting_ , Harry scolds himself. _Where is your humanity?_

Instead of turning on his heel and leaving again, which would’ve been a perfectly reasonable response, Harry figures, the boy interrupts Harry’s mumbling. “Do you have time to talk? Last time I was here it was one and you were leaving so I thought that if I stopped by at the same time I might catch you again when you weren’t working. Thought we could have a chat, maybe. I know this is sudden and probably as dreadful for you as it is for me, but I’d rather not put it off any longer if I’m being honest. I didn’t want to bother you but I’ve been going a bit mad and I just have one or two questions, possibly three, if you maybe had the time?”

The words come out in a rush, like the boy had kept them bottled up inside over the past few days. He seems slightly winded, Harry thinks, like before, and he’s not sure if it’s because he’s talking so fast or if he ran all the way here again. The boy continues, gesturing to Harry reassuringly, “If not that’s fine too! I could totally come back later, I’m pretty much free this whole week… It’s all at your convenience, really.”

He’s being awfully accommodating considering Harry has done nothing but reject him in progressively more unpleasant ways and apologize since they met. Harry isn’t sure what to say, his hands slipping down the handle of the broom. He thinks he probably owes this boy an explanation, but that involves a story Harry doesn’t much like to tell. He could say no and with any luck, he wouldn’t have to deal with this guy or his own soulmate issues ever again. But luck hasn’t exactly been on Harry’s side lately. And Harry understands this situation he’s suddenly involved in just as little as the other boy. They’ve essentially been tossed into uncharted waters together, but why should they have to drown alone? A few questions couldn’t hurt, and at least it would clear the air. In the end, it doesn’t take all that much consideration.

“And I’m really sorry for knocking you over with the door,” the boy adds lamely when Harry doesn’t speak up right away. “That was not on.”

Harry nods solemnly after a moment, looking down at the dust and crumbs scattered at their feet. “You did mess up my pile,” he sighs, put-upon.

The boy’s lips twitch in response, like he’s torn between being affronted by Harry teasing him and apologizing again. Harry saves him the trouble. “I usually get off at five on Thursdays when I’m not in early to bake, but…” He turns to Barbara, who has been watching the exchange curiously from the counter. “Y’alright to hold down the fort for a bit, Babs?”

“Of course, dear!” she replies brightly, looking between the two boys. “Take a long break, me ‘n Margot will be fine ‘round here.”

“Right,” Harry says, turning back to the boy. “I’m just going to…” he trails off, gesturing awkwardly to the broom still in his hand and hooking a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the back.

“Of course, take your time,” the boy says, giving Harry a warm smile and a wave of his hand.

His brightness is back today, Harry notes, obviously recovered after the abrupt dismissal he’d received from Harry the last time around. He probably didn’t have very high hopes for getting Harry to talk to him today, but he seems hopeful now as Harry moves to return the broom and gather his belongings.

In the back, Harry straightens out his shirt and tries to decide how this is going to go. It is his lunch break, so he grabs a few of the fresh croissants cooling on the table in the middle of the kitchen and stuffs them into a paper bag. Maybe the boy will be hungry too and they can have this nice, earth-shattering conversation over a shared meal. Harry tries to think positive. Margot, mixing cake batter over at the big industrial blender, eyes Harry warily as he rushes around the room, hastily tossing his apron onto the counter and grabbing his phone and keys. He gives her a wave before returning to the front.

The boy’s eyes are wandering around the room, taking in the baskets of fresh breads behind the counter, the jars of organic jam shelved around him, the chalkboard sign listing items and prices above the counter. When he sees Harry he smiles again, and it reaches the crinkles of his eyes.

“Shall we?” Harry asks, motioning toward the door with his sack of croissants.

The boy nods, holding the door open for Harry. “We shall.”

It’s a beautiful day when they step outside the bakery, the morning fog Harry had biked through finally having been melted away by the sun. He doesn’t know what the other boy had anticipated them doing, but Harry is more than up for a stroll, not wanting to waste the sunny weather. “There’s a park a few minutes away,” he suggests, “If you wanna walk, or we could find a bench? I have these croissants, don’t know if you’re hungry…”

“I would absolutely prefer a park and a croissant,” the boy says. “Lead the way.”

They’re quiet again, but it’s not the same silence that plagued them last Sunday. It’s not as heavy, the tension absent. There’s expectation in the air, like the world is holding its breath, waiting to see what happens.

It’s after they’ve turned the corner down a residential street a few minutes later that the boy clears his throat. “It’s a little strange, but I don’t even know your name. I know you’re my soulmate, but not _who_ you are. I’d never thought of that before. Odd, how this all works,” he says, shrugging casually, like his thoughts on the strange workings of their world don't trouble him at all.

It _is_ odd. Harry had hardly noticed he didn’t know the boy’s name, even while unwanted thoughts about him had filled his mind for five days. He really wants to know his name now.

“I’m Harry,” he offers. "Harry Styles."

“Harry,” the boy says next to him. He closes his eyes for a moment, like he’s already had one of his questions answered. “That’s a good name. Fits you. I’m Louis Tomlinson.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to actually meet you properly, Louis Tomlinson,” Harry smiles, offering him his hand. Louis takes it, and Harry wonders if Louis feels sparks, or butterflies, or any of the other cliché soulmate reactions as they touch. Every time Eli and Harry had touched, especially in the beginning, Harry had felt a zip of electricity go down his spine to his toes. Right now, Louis’ hand feels warm and soft in Harry’s, but that’s all he feels. It makes him feel a little empty.

When they let go of each other’s hands, Louis turns his face to the sky and lets out a single laugh, shaking his head. “This whole situation is fucked, isn’t it?”

He says it with humor but Harry knows there’s hurt there too. He can’t imagine what it would be like to meet his soulmate and immediately be told that he couldn’t have him. It would wreck him, probably. He’s at a loss for words again. “Yeah…” he chuckles nervously.

“I’m just sort of glad you’re a bloke, actually,” Louis continues, looking over at Harry. He’s still laughing a bit. “Like, I know that’s not how it really works but I was always _so_ worried my soulmate would be a girl. Obviously that should’ve been the least of my concerns.”

“Yeah, they don’t really warn you about your match already being taken,” Harry says. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard of this happening before. You’re a lucky man, Louis Tomlinson. Right special, you are.”

“Thanks Harry, I do feel pretty special,” Louis says. “Don’t let the reporters hear about this, I’ll get tossed into a media frenzy. Although I think you might be more special, you’ve got two soulmates,” Louis pokes him once in the arm, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Everybody’s gonna be jealous of you and your wealth of opportunities.”

When Harry doesn’t respond, Louis’ laughter dies out. “Unless…”

“Nah, ‘ve only got one,” Harry nods, smiling unhappily, lips pressed tightly together. He’s probably confirming the worst of Louis’ fears; Harry hates that he has to keep disappointing this boy, essentially bringing Louis down with him.

But Louis Tomlinson is full of surprises, it seems. He’s silent for a beat, processing this additional bit of damaging information, before he takes a deep breath and huffs it out loudly. He doesn’t shrink on himself, doesn’t let Harry’s rejection cripple him. Instead he just says, “That is rather unfortunate.”

By now they’ve drifted into the park, the curving path taking them through an open field. Around the grassy quad there’s a group of people throwing a Frisbee around, probably uni students, a father and son attempting to fly a kite though there’s a hardly a breeze, and a woman walking her dog on the opposite side of the field from Harry and Louis. There are trees on each side of the clearing, casting shadows onto the pavement where they’ve slowed to a halt. It’s almost too chilly to sit in the shade so Harry points out an empty bench in the sun over by the Frisbee group.

Louis slouches down onto the bench first, kicking his feet out straight in front of him. He’s wearing white Vans and each shoe has a smiley face penned onto the canvas. It’s quite endearing, Harry thinks as he sits down next to him. Not that he looked bad on Sunday – especially considering he had jumped out of bed and literally ran around town to two bakeries – but Louis looks decidedly more put together today. His hair is still unkempt but in a more deliberate way, the soft headband gone and his fringe across his forehead. He’s got on a grey jumper that says “Oops!” on the front, and black skinny jeans. It’s a good look, Harry decides. He unfolds the paper bakery bag and hands Louis one of the croissants before taking one for himself and tucking the bag under the bench along with his phone. Harry shoves half the roll in his mouth in one go while Louis gently peels his apart, nibbling on it slowly. _Maybe he’s not that hungry_ , Harry thinks. _Or maybe he lost his appetite after you dropped that bomb on him._ They don’t say anything until the croissants are gone and their buttery fingers have been wiped off on their jeans.

“So you really don’t feel anything? At all?” Louis asks. He’s quiet but doesn’t look openly wounded. Harry still feels like shit. _Definitely the second one then_.

“No,” he whispers back, head bowed. He twirls his rings around his fingers distractedly, feeling guilty as hell and not wanting to look Louis in the eyes.

Apart from being soft, Harry had also noticed that Louis’ eyes were very blue. Pretty. They reminded him of this shard of seaglass he’d found on a childhood family trip to the beach. After growing tired of splashing through the waves, he and Gemma had set out down the beach, scouring the sand for shark’s teeth and other treasures. Though they never did find any teeth, Harry had tucked the single, worn piece of clear blue seaglass he’d uncovered in the sand into his pocket to keep. He hadn’t thought about that trip in years. It was funny how a color, or a smell, or a feeling could so easily bring him back to a simple, happy moment he had completely forgotten. It was comforting, knowing some things weren’t lost after all. Harry wondered if he still had that piece of seaglass.

“Well. Not much I can do about that then,” Louis sighs, sitting up straighter on the bench and adjusting his jumper on his thin shoulders. “I still feel it, obviously. You always imagine it when you’re a kid, don’t you – what it’s going to feel like when you find your match. But nothing really compares, does it?”

Harry meets his gaze again. At least they can still talk about this, even though Harry feels like they’re at opposite ends of a rope. Maybe even the opposite ends of two different ropes. It’s a shared experience nonetheless. “What’s it like for you?”

Louis smirks, “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours?”

Harry chuckles, nodding his head. “Sure.”

Louis pauses to consider it for a moment, idly running his hand across his chest. “It’s intense but it’s just kinda…light, innit? Warm. Easy. Like the sun on a nice day, like today. Not only light like that, but also light like…weightless. I feel like I’m filled with helium. Disconnected a bit. But at the same time I feel this strong connection to you, like there’s a string between us I can’t see. Unattached, but attached. It’s a contradiction but it feels good,” he looks over at Harry. “I know it’s going to go away, but it makes me sad that you can’t feel it right now too. Not just because it’s a bum deal for me, but because everyone should feel this…free.”

And wow, Harry is blinking back tears now, coughing into his fist to distract from his soggy eyes. The powerful initial feeling of matching did lose its intensity eventually, but Harry hasn’t felt even a little bit of the kind of lightness Louis described for a long time. His words hit Harry like a punch to the gut. He feels emptier than ever. Where Louis has the sun inside him, Harry has nothing anymore. _It makes me sad that you can’t feel it too._ How Louis can be so attentive, so kind to Harry in the face of these unreciprocated feelings, Harry doesn’t know. He isn’t bitter, or pitying, just genuinely crestfallen for Harry that he can’t be buoyant too. Louis is remarkable.

He’s also staring at Harry expectantly, eyebrows raised, waiting to hear about the feelings Harry doesn’t feel anymore. Harry coughs into his hand again, scrambling to think of what to say. Does he tell Louis he’s hollow? That even the residual feelings he should still have have disappeared along with his soulmate? Does he lie? Does he start eating another croissant to put it off?

“Erm,” he begins, letting out a watery chuckle. “I’ve always said it’s a bit like a balloon.”

When he doesn’t move to elaborate any further, Louis gapes at him, looking a little insulted. “Harry. I just gave you pure _poetry_ to describe these intense, deeply personal feelings I am experiencing – about you, no less! I think there may have even been a metaphor in there, and contradiction is a pretty big word. And you turn around and tell me you feel like a _balloon_? I can’t believe this.”

Louis throws up his hands, making a big production like he’s going to storm away from the bench. “Noooooo!” Harry howls, grabbing Louis’ hand before he’s out of reach and pulling him back down onto the bench beside him. They’re both laughing. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Yours was just so…so _beautiful,_ Louis. You astounded me, I said the first thing I could think of! I couldn’t beat yours!”

“ _Balloon_ ,” Louis scoffs again. “It’s not a competition, Harold. I don’t need it in iambic pentameter or anything.”

“ _Iambic pentameter_ ,” Harry parrots back sarcastically. “You insult me with your vocabulary words.”

Louis pats Harry’s hand patronizingly with his left, his right still clasped between both of Harry’s palms. Belatedly, Harry thinks he should probably stop holding Louis’ hand like this – he wouldn't want to give him false hope, or be a tease. But honestly, Louis probably doesn’t mind the touching. Harry remembers that part, the insatiable urge to be near your match, to be linked to them. And soulmate or not, Harry has always been the affectionate type, constantly forcing a cuddle or a pet when he could get away with it; Gemma says he’s annoying, always clinging to her like a limpet. So rather than letting go, he starts playing with Louis’ fingers instead, deciding he could use a distraction for this next bit anyway.

“I sort of lied to you before,” Harry begins softly.

“Oh, so you don’t feel like a balloon?” Louis replies, teasing gently. He seems to have picked up on Harry’s sudden shift in mood. He doesn’t make eye contact and Harry silently thanks him for that, whether Louis realizes it’s helping Harry or not. Instead Louis watches their twining hands, soft eyes tender.

“Nah, on Sunday. When I said I have a soulmate – I mean I do,” he adds on quickly when Louis’ fingers twitch in response. “Well, no,” he sighs in frustration. It’s so hard to make this clear, to force himself to say it. “It’s more like I _did_. I _had_ a soulmate but, uh. Not anymore.”

A pause.

“What happened?”

Harry blows some of his hair off his forehead, trying to decide what to say again. Even based on how little he knows about Louis, Harry does know he can trust him to be gentle, to take Harry’s words and hold them carefully. But Harry doesn’t know how much of himself he wants to give away at this point. They could very well never see each other again as soon as Louis’ questions are answered, and Harry doesn’t want to unnecessarily rip open any of his own metaphorical stitches.

Harry doesn’t talk about these wounds though, tries not to even think about them, so his yearly suffering quota hasn’t been filled quite yet. It won’t break him to say it.

“Eli and I, we – we were together,” he stutters out. “And now he’s…gone.”

And that’s it. A small admission, hardly the description Louis had asked for. It’s not anywhere close to the whole story, but it speaks volumes. Harry lets out all of the air from his lungs; Louis doesn’t say anything at all.

Harry’s mind shifts into overdrive in the silence, whirling through every possible thought Louis could be having at that moment. Does he think he has a chance now? That Harry has presented him with an opportunity? That this is the solution to their own little contradiction? People who aren’t matched don’t stay together, Louis can’t possibly hope for that. Does he think Harry is a charity case? He knows Harry’s missing a piece now; does he think he’s broken? Harry feels a little empty sometimes, yes, but he doesn’t consider himself _broken_ by any means. Certainly not beyond repair. Harry rethinks what he said. The phrasing was a little odd. _Oh god,_ he panics, _does Louis think he’s a_ murderer _?_

He’s definitely overreacting now, and his spike of anxiety must show in the way he's quickly overturning Louis’ fingers in his hands. Louis flips his own hand over and curls their fingers together tightly.

“Hey,” Louis breathes, lifting their clasped hands and holding them to his chest. “I’m sorry.”

Harry sniffles. “What have you got to be sorry for?”

“Nothing. I’m just sorry that it happened.”

Harry chokes out a little sob then, and Louis lets go of his hand so Harry can scrub away his unshed tears. He allows himself a moment to regroup, running his fingers through his hair and rolling his shoulders, adjusting to the sensation of actually talking about this after such a long time. When the world has reoriented itself in the wake of his admission, Harry finds that going on isn’t so bad.

“It was a while ago,” he says. “I’m okay now. Time heals all wounds and all that. But I don’t feel anything. To answer your question,” Harry adds, when Louis looks confused. “About what it feels like for me. It doesn’t feel like anything. I don’t feel any of it anymore.”

Harry doesn’t want to say anything more after that. He doesn’t know what the next step is so he simply waits. Together, Harry and Louis both silently observe the activities taking place in the grassy clearing around them. The sun is still shining, the breeze is calm and cool, and it’s quiet except for the father and son laughing as their kite crashes down once again, the uni students shouting as they dash after the Frisbee. Everything is tentative, hanging on by a thread. Louis seems to be considering what Harry has told him, calculating, and Harry bides his time, unable to anticipate Louis’ next move.

The light has shifted by the time Louis does speak up. The shadows from the surrounding trees seem longer, or maybe Harry is just trying to find evidence that time has actually passed, that they’re not stuck in this weird confessional limbo. Two halves of soulmate matches, but not a whole together. What a pair they make.

“I don’t want to not see you,” Louis says finally.

It’s then that Harry decides he shouldn’t be surprised by anything Louis says, though that’s probably all that’s ever going to happen.

“You can definitely tell me to fuck off, but I want to be your friend. I quite like you, and maybe I’m reading this all wrong, but I think we get on well. I won’t make a, uh, _move_ or anything. I would never want to make you uncomfortable. It’s only a match, not love at first sight, as dashing as you may be, Harry Styles,” Louis says, tugging lightly at one of Harry’s curls. “I can control myself if need be.”

Harry smiles at him shyly. “I don’t want to not see you either. You’re pretty great, Louis Tomlinson.”

Louis returns the smile. The moment feels like a gift. “That makes me really happy, Harry. It was very…difficult to stay away from you after I met you, to be honest. And I’m not keen on doing it again. Not sure if I even could.”

“You didn’t have to,” Harry frowns, ignoring the warmth curling in his chest at Louis’ words. “I honestly expected you to turn back up a lot sooner than you did. You really have admirable restraint, staying away from your soulmate for that long.”

“Please. I waltzed into your bakery, _you_ didn’t even say hello, rejected me without a thought, and then promptly kicked me out. That’s poor customer service right there. You’re lucky I even came back with the treatment I got,” Louis says. “And maybe you’re just not as alluring as you think you are, Harold. With your curls and your ladies’ blouses and your jeggings,” he accuses, pinching the fabric Harry’s jeans and snapping them against his thigh. As if Louis' jeans aren't even tighter.

Harry cackles loudly, looking down at his shirt. It’s a flowery print and a bit see through, but. “’S not a ladies’ blouse!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, balloon boy.”

Harry snickers to himself but doesn’t argue. Louis bumps his shoulder against Harry’s and doesn’t shift away after, leaning easily into his side. Harry may not have the sun inside him, but he feels pretty light, basking in their effortless companionship like this.

Comfortable silence stretches on between them for a long moment, until Harry starts up the conversation again. “Just promise me one thing, Louis,” he begins.

Louis hums absently. “What’s that?”

“You have to promise you won’t fall in love with me,” Harry says. He meets Louis gaze with a serious look.

Louis’ eyes widen and he tenses, like he’s gearing up to accept Harry’s promise, on his honor, before he scowls. “Hold on. Are you A Walk To Remember-ing me right now? Is that what this is?”

Harry cackles loudly again while Louis attempts to shove him down the bench in retaliation. Harry has his fingers tucked into the slats of the bench, holding his bum in place, so Louis really only succeeds in pushing himself further away from Harry. Eventually he stops shoving and crosses his arms with a huff, watching grumpily from the edge of the bench as Harry’s hoots of delight die out.

“Oh Louis, I thought it was funny! Your eyes got all scared,” Harry cajoles, mimicking Louis’ wide-eyed face.

“Yeah, well. I don’t like promises much.”

“Alright, I’ll remember that,” Harry declares. “No promises.” He scoots all the way to the end of the bench so he’s pressed into Louis’ side again and murmurs lowly into his ear, “I promise.”

Harry fights off a grin, utterly pleased with his own joke. Louis rolls his eyes. “For the record, not falling in love with you doesn’t look like it’ll be much of a problem,” he says. “Your jokes are rubbish and you’re not very nice.”

“Why are my jokes rubbish?” Harry scowls. “And I'm so nice!"

Louis waves him off. “Seriously though,” he stresses, like he desperately needs Harry to believe he won’t ruin this. “This is going to be fine. We’ll be great. This isn’t A Walk To Remember, being just your friend isn’t going to kill me.”

Louis appears to regret that choice of phrase immediately when Harry flinches, smile slipping off his face.

“Oh _wow_ , shit. I am _so_ sorry. That was so stupid. Please forget I said that,” Louis backtracks, grimacing. He rubs his thumb over his eyebrow uneasily, as if he’s trying to think of a way to salvage the conversation in a hurry.

Harry gets there first.

“No, it’s okay,” he says, sighing. “I feel like we’ve been apologizing to each other too much. I think everything will be great too. I like being around you, and you don’t make me uncomfortable,” he says, thinking back to what Louis said before. “But we can’t tiptoe around each other forever. This is an...unusual situation, and we’re going to have to deal with it, and we’re probably going to say things we don’t mean without really thinking. Can we agree to not let it eat us alive, hmm?”

Louis nods, relief smoothing out his features.

“And more importantly, I think you’re a bit confused about the plot of A Walk To Remember, Louis. It’s Jamie who dies, not Landon. Falling in love with her doesn’t kill _him_ , so you had it all wrong."

“Big Nicholas Sparks fan, are we?”

“You knew it was a Nicholas Sparks book too, so what’s it to you?”

“So you’re saying that between the two of us you’re the girl?” Louis continues, ignoring him.

“Well. I am wearing a ladies’ blouse.”

Louis cracks a smile. “That’s what I thought.”

They fall into silence again. It's so easy with Louis, this back and forth they have. Even after one conversation with him, Harry revels in it. Louis had noticed the almost imperceptible changes in his mood as they talked about the things that upset him, and he hadn’t shied away, just followed Harry along every up and down. Every time the conversation had gone a little dark, Harry sinking back into his own melancholy, Louis had made a joke or some quick remark to bring Harry right back to equilibrium. Only knowing the smallest details of Harry’s past, Louis had been gentle, but he wasn’t treating Harry like he was fragile, a box marked ‘handle with care’. He wasn’t left scrambling after the conversation when Harry tried to lift the mood with a joke, and Louis wasn’t afraid to lighten the conversation himself where others might hold off in order to protect Harry, too afraid of hurting him in his vulnerability. And Harry is so grateful for all of it.

“So back at the bakery you said you had one or two, maybe even three questions. Have I answered them all now?” Harry asks.

“Hardly, Harold. Since you aren’t going to send me away I now have to know everything about you,” Louis replies.

“That sounds daunting.”

“Not even a little bit. We hardly know each other, it’s a basic requirement for friendship," Louis says, rolling his wrist in the air imperiously. "So how old are you anyway?”

Jumping right into it then. “Erm, twenty-three.”

“Brilliant! I’m twenty-five. My birthday’s December 24th and no, it’s not that bad getting joint birthday-slash-Christmas gifts. And I’m a Capricorn.”

“My birthday is February 1st and I’m an…Aquarius? I think?” Harry says, smiling at Louis’ rapid-fire facts. “This feels like I’m signing up for one of those online match-finder profiles.”

“Banish the thought, Harry, we obviously don’t need that kind of help,” Louis dismisses. “Oh, but speaking of match-finding, there is one thing that has been bothering me. Don’t feel obligated to show me if you don’t want to, of course, but could I maybe see your tattoo? You were wearing long sleeves the other day too, so I couldn’t see it.”

The soulmate tattoos had always been Harry’s favorite part of the whole matching enterprise, at least until his had become a permanent reminder of what he didn’t have anymore. They were a physical marker of the connection between two people, complementary images to represent the invisible attachment they shared. The tattoos weren’t exactly  _necessary,_ since everyone experienced such an intense, undeniable _feeling_ when they found their match, but they illustrated how people fit together on the outside, just like they do on the inside. They were often beautiful, and even as bitter as he was, Harry still loved seeing them on others, spotting how the art corresponded on peoples’ clasped hands or how one tattoo complemented another in an embrace. The ship tattooed on Harry’s arm felt a bit out of place now, missing the waves on Eli’s arm that had kept it afloat.

“Oh, it’s just a boat,” Harry says nonchalantly, like he doesn’t sometimes catch himself rubbing his hand over it longingly when he’s not thinking. With his shirt already unbuttoned halfway to his navel, Harry easily slips the shoulder of it down his arm to reveal the tattoo. He sincerely hopes he isn’t being too bawdy, exposing himself like this on a sunny afternoon in a public park.

Louis hitches in a quick breath of air, and Harry isn’t sure if it’s because he likes what he sees or not, if it complements Louis’ tattoo. He turns in his seat to face Harry, his hand hovering over the tattoo. “Can I…?”

Harry nods, “Of course.”

Louis gently places his palm on Harry’s arm, brushing his thumb over the ship, tracing the masts. “It’s lovely,” he breathes.

“Does it –”

“Match mine?” Louis meets Harry’s eyes, removing his hand from Harry’s bicep to push up the sleeve of his jumper. “Yeah.”

He turns over his arm, revealing the compass emblazoned on his inner forearm. It’s a gorgeous tattoo, and Harry can’t help but skim his fingers across it once. Instead of pointing toward north, the compass’s arrow points to ‘home’. Harry’s heart _aches_ at that. He feels like he’s disappointing Louis yet again. The tattoos mean something, and that is a meaning Harry can’t fulfill. How did this boy, with so much kindness and warmth, and the softest eyes Harry has ever seen, end up with a soulmate who can’t give him everything he deserves?

“Home?” Harry questions, shifting his shirt back onto his shoulder.

“Yeah, I’ve always wondered about that,” Louis shrugs, dismissing any further discussion on the topic by rolling his sleeve down to hide away the compass. “Doesn’t matter though, I have a better question now.”

Apparently Louis has also decided that talking more about the tattoos would be equally dissatisfying for both of them. Harry is happy to change the subject.

“How have we not met before?” Louis asks instead. “This isn’t that big of a town, and I know there’s a bakery closer to my flat and everything but I’ve lived here most of my life. We definitely should’ve bumped into each other before now.”

“Oh, I’m not from here. I was born in Holmes Chapel. Lived there my whole childhood, so we wouldn’t have gone to school together when we were kids or anything,” Harry tells him.

He hesitates then. Given the circumstances, Harry isn’t sure how much Louis would really like to hear about Eli, but he’s pretty much central to the story Louis is asking for. And despite his earlier reservations, Harry is finding it much easier to talk about Eli in the past tense now that Louis already knows the worst part about him, which is his nonexistence. He decides to stop fretting and just get on with it. “I only moved here when I was eighteen. Me and Eli had just met and we decided to come here for uni – not that that lasted very long. I took classes for a couple semesters, decided I hated lecture halls, then started working at the bakery. Eli was the studious one.”

If he’s bothered by Harry mentioning Eli, Louis doesn’t show it. He just nods his head thoughtfully, saying, “I guess that explains it then. I went to uni in Manchester, spent most of my summers there too. I wouldn’t have even been here _to_ meet you,” Louis says. “I graduated three years ago and came back though, so where have you been? Tell me Harry, have you been avoiding me? Be honest.”

Harry laughs nervously. “Erm, well. I was around until I turned twenty-one, and then it…happened,” Harry glances over at Louis, who’s just watching Harry carefully. “Eli died. And as you might expect I sorta…lost it for a bit. I moved home for a year, probably right around the time you moved back here. Got sick of being coddled eventually, moved back again, and I’ve been here for almost a year and a half since. Can’t really say why we haven’t met in the mean time though. I suppose you’ve just been going to the wrong bakery.”

Louis watches Harry for a moment, like he’s not sure what to say. Harry can practically see the wheels turning in Louis’ brain, trying to work something out. Eventually he just throws an arm around Harry’s shoulders and says, “Well Harry, it appears as though fate has led us on a merry chase.”

Harry smiles at the sentiment. “Big believer in fate?”

“Hmm, suppose I am.”

Louis doesn’t move to ask more questions after that. It’s definitely been more than a half hour since they left the bakery, and Harry’s lunch break is well over by now. He’s sure the ladies in the bakery don’t really mind, but Harry thinks he should probably head back soon all the same, at least to keep up appearances. Like he hadn’t just dashed out with a mysterious boy without explanation. He can almost feel the pinch on his bum Barbara is going to give him when she starts hassling him for the details. Despite the deceivingly innocent appearance of their permed grey hair and their rosy cheeks hidden behind big glasses, those women were dreadful gossips.

As Harry reaches under the bench to retrieve his phone and check the time, Louis seems to figure out whatever it was he’d been calculating in his head. When Harry sits back up, Louis places his arm around him once again and says cautiously, “You and Eli. You were only together for three years.”

It’s not a question. Harry sucks in a breath, his heart clenching painfully in his chest. “Yeah,” he whispers back. He refuses to cry but he does shut his eyes, tipping his head back onto the bench and finding the crook of Louis’ elbow there, pillowing his neck.

Matching usually resulted in eerily similar lifespans for both soulmates. No one could really explain the phenomenon, it was almost as if there was magic at work. It couldn’t be coincidence that soulmate pairs just didn’t get separated, that people spent their whole lives together at a rate far better than chance. Whether statistical probability could account for matching lifespans or not, most people didn’t question it. There didn’t need to be a solution because it wasn’t a problem in the first place; no one would want to give up a life with their perfect other half anyway. Harry thinks there’s research being done somewhere on the effects of soulmate matching, positive affect and reduced susceptibly to disease, or matching and the likelihood of premature death avoidance, or something. If anything significant ever came out of the studies the results probably wouldn’t make headlines, though. They’re basically irrelevant. People spend their lives together. The tattoos fade and sag, but the invisible bond remains taut, constant and undeniable. When one soulmate passes away in old age, the other usually follows days after. Accidents and disease do happen, but they're uncommon. Eli was an outlier; Harry is simply unlucky.

This time Louis doesn’t need to say sorry, he just holds Harry even closer to him. Harry turns his head down onto Louis’ shoulder, tucking himself into the other boy’s side. He’ll take whatever comfort Louis can give him, burrowing into the warmth and security Louis offers with an arm wrapped firmly around his shoulders, fingers brushing softly up and down Harry’s arm in meaningless patterns. A cloud passes in front of the sun, and the two boys sit curled into each other on a park bench under the weight of all that has been said.


	3. Chapter Three

The following Monday, Harry goes into the bakery for his morning shift as usual, takes his allotted break time – no extra hours are spent in the park – and generally makes careful work of avoiding Barbara and Margot. Since he has Fridays and Saturdays off and works Sundays alone, it’s the first time he’s seen them after running off with Louis the week before. Harry is treading carefully. He stays in the back when the ladies are up front, taking it upon himself to create a one-man assembly line to prepare the ham and swiss and egg salad sandwiches for lunch. When they later move into the kitchen to decorate cakes, Harry hurries to the front to greet customers and sanitize tables.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk about Louis, he just isn’t sure how much Louis would want him to say. Word travels fast in town – especially when Barbara and Margot get involved – and Harry and Louis’ situation is bound to ruffle a few feathers. If people found out, wherever he went Louis would see sympathetic eyes and hear words whispered behind his back about how his match hadn’t worked. Harry had a lot of personal experience with that. Everyone who knows about Eli has heard of Harry. A year and a half after moving back, he’s only recently stopped receiving heartfelt condolences from townspeople he’s never even seen before. People would definitely talk now if they saw him out and about with Louis, even more so if they knew Louis was matched with Harry. Harry doesn’t care much about what people think of him or with whom he spends his time, but he isn’t about to fire up the rumor mill if Louis doesn’t want the whole town to know about them.

It’s the early afternoon when Barbara does finally manage to corner Harry in the broom closet for questioning. She pinches his bum, just as he had suspected she would, but Harry only divulges that “that jumpy boy from last Thursday” is called Louis and is a new friend of his. Barbara seems to sense that Harry isn’t going to give her any more information and lets it go after that.

Harry and Louis had stayed wrapped together on the park bench for a long time the previous week, long enough that Harry couldn’t handle sitting around being miserable anymore and had insisted on going back to the bakery. They wandered out of the park together but before parting ways, had switched phones and programmed their contact details in, “To make emotional devastation faster and more efficient!” Harry had quipped. Louis hadn’t taken the remark very well, like he didn’t like Harry joking at the expense of his own grief to lighten the mood. He’d added his name into Harry’s contacts regardless.

Now, whenever he receives a text from ‘Louis :)’ Harry can only assume his day is soon to be filled with some kind of antic or another. After spending his two days off trailing Louis around the entire town, Harry knows Louis likes having _activities_ during his days. Harry is more than happy to engage in extended periods of lounging, but Louis is not one for stagnation or quiet contemplation. He just exudes _presence_ , always moving, never muted. Harry would almost describe him as twitchy after watching him constantly adjusting his clothes and fiddling with his fringe during their outings. It’s not done in an agitated or nervous sort of way though, more like he’s restless, incapable of holding his boundless energy inside, always ready for the next endeavor. It’s the sort of presence that demands attention, not only because it needs to be dealt with, but also because it’s hard to look away from. Harry would not have been surprised to see people watching Louis everywhere they had gone on Friday and Saturday if Harry himself hadn’t been dedicating all of his attention to Louis too.

Now, as he’s walking out of the bakery for the day, a text from Louis saying ‘ _come over_ ’ lights up Harry’s phone. Louis had been quick to memorize his bakery schedule, though Harry secretly thinks Louis has a spreadsheet hidden somewhere in his flat that he consults to find out the exact moment he can text Harry about plans. Harry isn’t quite sure what Louis could possibly need to do today, considering the amount of ground they’d covered running errands in the previous days. He could really go for a nap instead of traipsing around town again, but, interestingly enough, Harry’s empty house hasn’t seemed all that appealing since Louis started inviting him along on all his misadventures. Harry hops on his bike and sets off toward Louis’ flat on the other side of town without any further thought on what he’s getting himself into.

On Friday and Saturday, in between the trips to the paper supply store, three different record stores, Louis’ favorite pizza shop, the Saturday market and every place in between, Harry had learned a lot more about Louis as they continued to trade facts about themselves. He learned that Louis teaches sixth form and, without papers to mark and lessons to plan, has unlimited free time during the summer while Harry remains “shackled by the chains of the bourgeoisie” – Louis’ words – in his year-round job at the bakery. Louis said that he doesn't quite know what to do with himself with all of that free time and up until he had met Harry, had mostly been planning on bumming around all summer and smoking too much weed with his best teacher friend Zayn and best childhood friend Stan. He said that made him feel like a “scumbag teenager” again and was happy Harry was willing to do things with him, unlike good-for-nothing Zayn who slept all day and Stan who was too busy with his job to pay attention to Louis. Harry thought Louis seemed rather fond of Zayn and Stan anyway.

He learned that Louis had gone to school to study English and Drama and that he wasn’t sure how he'd managed to snag a job right where he wanted to be, teaching exactly what he wanted to, though Harry assured him that’s sort of how things were supposed to go. He learned that Louis had met Zayn on his first day of school when he accidentally sliced his tie in half with the paper guillotine and Zayn had lent him one of his spare ones. Even though it was a hideous shit green color that had clashed terribly with Louis’ eyes and failed to impress his students on his first day, Louis and Zayn have remained nigh inseparable since and continue to break the hearts of young girls and boys with the “combined power of their cheekbones.” Louis still has the borrowed tie and refuses to return it to Zayn because Zayn should learn to respect himself and not wear shit green ties. Harry learned that he would really like to meet Zayn, just by seeing the dimple that appears in Louis’ cheek when he talks about him.

Louis had also chattered on about his family long enough for Harry to pick up the names of all of his siblings: the eldest Lottie and Fizzy, who were the worst; the first set of twins Phoebe and Daisy, who had loved Harry’s cupcakes and said the frosting color was perfect; and the second set of twins Ernest and Doris, who Louis hadn’t seen as much as he would’ve liked while he was away at uni, but tries to make up for it by visiting often and bringing them sweets they aren’t supposed to have.

Harry learned that Louis is a complete mama’s boy and is entirely unapologetic about it. Even during the worst of his teenage years, Louis and Jay had remained best friends, and to this day, Louis never keeps secrets from his mum. She'd heard about Harry the day Louis found him and she knows about what they talked about in the park. Harry was surprised to learn that she even already knew about Eli before Louis told her, that she remembered seeing him in the obituaries of the local newspaper all those years ago. Harry supposes that it isn’t too odd that she remembers, considering it was shocking to see someone so young having passed away. Harry and Louis were again baffled by the fact that they had never met given the kind of notoriety Harry had achieved in their small town.

Harry also heard a brief overview of Louis’ entire childhood, with all of the most noteworthy events in the History of Louis Tomlinson included. Such as the day Louis and Stan attempted bike tricks in Louis’ street until Louis, true to form, had crashed and broke his arm. (Louis showed Harry the scar under his elbow where the pavement had scraped away his skin to prove it). Or the day Phoebe and Daisy were born, when Louis and his other two sisters visited his mum in the hospital to see the tiniest babies Louis had ever met. Harry’s insides turned to mush at the softness in Louis’ voice and features when he talked about his siblings. He could so easily imagine little Louis with a twin in each arm, positively vibrating with the energy he was holding in to keep his baby sisters settled. He also heard about the day Louis realized he was gay in year ten, when he and Jordan Magruder kissed in the locker room as they celebrated their victory in the football championship. And the day Louis went on stage in front of an audience for the first time and realized he didn’t want to give up theatre, even if it would never get him a job. And the day he realized all his hard work in sixth form had paid off when he received his A Level results and knew he would get to go to uni. He’d cried in his room until his mum got home from work and found him weeping into his soggy pillow. Then she’d cried too.

They’d only spent a handful of hours together but Harry already felt like he’d known Louis for most of his life. Returning Louis’ generous outpouring of personal information, Harry had given Louis his own annotated autobiography. He’d detailed his upbringing in rural Cheshire, describing how he used to get chased by the neighbor’s goats and spent the first night of autumn every year going cow tipping with his best friend Liam. He talked about the meager pocket money he’d received for mowing the lawn his whole childhood, and how, in retrospect, he really didn’t need to get paid at all given how much he’d genuinely enjoyed just riding the lawn mower around. He told Louis about the apple tree in his backyard and how he hadn’t eaten an apple since he was sixteen and accidentally ate a worm in one he’d picked from that tree. It was the only fruit he refused to eat. He talked about his pet hamster he named Hamster and his cat Dusty and how he had cried for a whole day when Hamster died when he was nine, and again when Dusty died when he was nineteen.

Harry talked about how close he was with his own family, especially his mum and Gemma. He went on for ages about how cool he thought his older sister was, how clever she was, and how proud of her he was for staying in school and studying to become a doctor. He told Louis about how hard it had been for him to leave home for uni even though Eli had gone with him. He talked about meeting Niall in a music course during his first semester and how they had bonded over their mutual appreciation for The Eagles, fine cuisine, and golf while they learned how to play the steel drum.

Harry told Louis about dropping out of school and then getting hired by Barbara at the bakery. He hadn’t known what he wanted to do – maybe law, maybe sociology, maybe music – and only recently had decided that he probably wouldn’t have been satisfied with any of those in the end, that he was happy at the bakery where he got to work with his hands and talk to all the interesting people who came in. He talked about how Barbara had basically apprenticed him in as co-owner and how he was set to inherit the establishment whenever Barbara decided to retire and go traveling with her wife Sandra. He told Louis that his favorite thing to make was bread dough because he found the kneading relaxing and liked getting to watch the dough rise under the damp towel afterward, that it was the closest thing to magic he ever got to. Louis had unnecessarily informed him about the wonders of yeast after that comment, to which Harry told him that making jelly filled pastries was his second favorite and that they were full of shit just like Louis.

He even told Louis more about Eli after Louis questioned why Harry was leaving him out of his stories.

“He’s one of the most important parts of your life, Harry,” Louis had reasoned. “I’d like to hear about him someday, if you ever want to tell me.”

So he’d talked about how they’d met at a polo match of all places – “Well that’s right posh,” Louis had remarked – and how falling in love with Eli had been the easiest thing Harry had ever done. He told Louis about how much Eli made Harry laugh, how he could reassure him whenever he questioned himself, whether it was about dropping out of uni or if he looked good in boat neck tops or not. He talked about how shitty their first flat had been, how the shower took four minutes to heat up and no one was allowed to flush while someone was showering unless they wanted to get them scalded. Harry told Louis that Eli had been studying to become engineer and that his favorite book was _Dandelion Wine_.

He told Louis that Eli had died in a car crash, that it had been a tragic accident and never for a second had Harry blamed the other driver. He told Louis that he missed everything about Eli so much it hurt sometimes, but one of the little things he missed most was finding Eli’s half-completed crossword puzzles laying around their entire house, wedged in the couch cushions, hidden between the pillows on their bed, tucked into magazines in the rack next to the toilet. Eli’s inability to complete a crossword puzzle used to make Harry twitch, mostly because he refused to consult a puzzle dictionary or accept Harry’s help. And then he taunted Harry further by leaving them sitting around the house unfinished, which had driven Harry completely mad. Harry told Louis that ten months ago, while rearranging his room, he’d found a crossword puzzle under his wardrobe from the day before Eli died. He told Louis that he hadn’t found another one since.

It was then that Louis had wrapped Harry in the fiercest embrace the folk section of the Second Street Record Store had ever seen. When Harry couldn’t breathe, he wasn’t sure if it was because he was crying or because Louis was holding him so tightly.

Even if he is the punch line of some great cosmic joke, Harry thinks he’s quite glad that he has Louis Tomlinson. As he turns the last corner and pedals down Louis’ street, Harry, trying for willful ignorance, wonders if Louis has maybe invited him over today for a quiet, uninspired afternoon of mindless telly. Perhaps he’ll still be able to get that nap in. His hopes are immediately dashed when he stops at Louis’ doorstep and finds him leaning against the railing, twirling his car keys around a finger and scrolling through his phone. Louis looks up as Harry clambers off his bike and begins noisily securing it to the railing with his u-lock.

“Hello, Harry,” he greets cheerfully, giving Harry a once over before hopping down the steps to stand next to him. “What a wide brimmed hat you’re sporting today. Didn’t your mother ever tell you to wear a helmet?”

Louis flicks the brim of his hat as Harry straightens and starts billowing out the front of his shirt, trying to cool down. “You live quite far from the bakery, did you know that?” Harry huffs, ignoring Louis’ comment. “If you’re going to drag me all over town in your car anyway why don’t you just give me a ride?”

“‘Drag you all over town?’ I’m sorry Harry, are my plans not good enough for you? You don’t have to come along,” Louis says, aiming for standoffish but landing somewhere between apprehensive and apologetic.

“No – I love your plans, I just don’t love biking for twenty minutes. It’s all up hill. Both ways.”

“Somehow I find that hard to believe. But if a ride is what you’d like, Tommo’s Taxi will be at your service from now on,” Louis says. He pats Harry’s cheek, still flushed from exertion, then remarks, “You’re all sweaty." He wrinkles his nose up at Harry and wipes his palm off on the thigh of Harry's jeans.

Harry snorts. “Yeah, that’s the problem.” He looks down at his wilted shirt and his floury jeans and mourns the thought of what his hair looks like under his hat. “Do I need to change for this excursion? This isn’t exactly my best look…”

Louis waves him off. “Don’t worry your pretty head, we’re only going to the supermarket.”

That gives Harry pause. “Louis. We were just at the farmer's market not two days ago.”

“Yes, and it obviously escaped your notice that I didn’t _buy_ anything while we were at the farmer's market.”

Harry splutters. “We were there for _two hours_!”

“We were browsing!” Louis yells over his shoulder, leaving Harry behind as he takes off across the street toward his car without him.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Harry groans, stomping after Louis. By the time he's flopping into the passenger seat, Louis already has his seat belt on and his phone plugged in as he scours his playlist for a song.

“Buckle up!” Louis chirps as something with sleepy guitars begins to fill the car speakers.

Louis is nothing if not safety first. Today wasn't the first time he’d asked Harry about wearing a helmet. Harry, still grumbling, straps himself in obediently as Louis pulls into the street. Harry hadn’t cared much for cars after Eli’s accident, had taken to riding his bike everywhere instead, but at least Louis was a decent enough driver, if not a bit erratic. He wasn’t very delicate with the brakes and liked to shout at people.

“Did you perform any bread magic today?” Louis asks, ignoring Harry’s continued grumbling.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Nope, Mondays are muffin days. Lots of meetings on Mondays, so they’re always in high demand. No bread for me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Harry just hums in response. “Did you do anything today?”

“Waited impatiently for you to get off work while Zayn slept through the entire conversation I had with him about Breaking Bad,” Louis says, shrugging. “He isn’t going to be very happy waking up to sixty-three text messages about a show he doesn’t watch. Why doesn’t anyone want to talk about me or my interests Harry?” Louis pouts.

Laughing, Harry says, “Well Barbara certainly wanted to talk about you today.”

“I trust you sang my praises?” Louis asks, looking over at Harry with a twinkle in his eye.

“Didn’t really say much actually. I only told her your name and that you were a friend. I wasn’t sure how much you’d want me to say about the whole…” he waves a hand at Louis’ compass tattoo. “You know how this town likes to talk.”

Louis is quiet for a minute, contemplative. “But who gives a fuck about what they say though, right? You can tell people if they ask, Harry, I don’t mind. If you ask me, people get too hung up on the soulmate thing anyway,” Louis says. “And honestly I’m not really in the business of hiding myself away in order to make others more comfortable.”

Harry blinks at that. He greatly admires Louis’ ability to be so honestly and unapologetically himself. Even if Harry doesn’t care much about what people think of him, he has always been a bit too much of a people pleaser; too quick to yield parts of himself in order to appease others, too willing to compromise himself in order to avoid conflict. Louis is quite outspoken, and Harry thinks he could use someone like that, someone who’s great at standing up for himself. He could learn a few things from Louis.

“Alright. Good,” Harry says after a moment spent silently basking in Louis’ self-assurance. “I really need to catch mum and Gemma up on my life, so at least I know what to tell them about you now.”

“Only the good things, Harold.”

“Of course. What bad things are there even to say?”

Louis smirks. “That’s what I like to hear. Brownnoser.”

Their conversation is interrupted then by someone with the right of way making a legal turn that Louis finds particularly insulting. He spends the rest of the drive to the store listing off the inequalities he believes to be present in traffic laws that he objects to, which, as a frequent pedestrian and a concerned proponent of bicycle safety, Harry is a little offended by.

They’re still bickering as they walk into the supermarket. “All I’m saying is that there are over 19,000 cyclists killed or injured in this country every year and those accidents could be prevented with just a little bit of the discretion you have completely written off!” Harry exclaims, snatching up a shopping basket with slightly more force than necessary. He figures he might as well pick up a few supplies of his own while they’re at the shop.

“Don’t think I won’t fact-check you on that,” Louis retorts, choosing a trolley for himself and setting off down the first aisle.

Whether Harry has managed to convince him or not, Louis doesn’t say more on the issue. They weave up and down the aisles in relative peace, with Louis making occasional remarks about the benefits of buying generic and Harry making increasingly sadder faces at the contents of Louis’ cart. He doesn’t say anything when Louis picks out four boxes of cereal, he keeps his mouth shut as each processed frozen food is added to the cart, but he has to draw the line when Louis bypasses the produce section entirely.

“Louis, aren’t you going to buy any vegetables?”

Mystified, Louis asks, “Why would I buy something I’m not going to eat?”

“Oh my god,” Harry cries, distraught. "You need nutrients to live, Lou!"

Louis scoffs. “I’ve obviously made it by somehow,” he says, gesturing to himself in evidence. “I’m not much of a cook, I don’t do _ingredients_. My abilities don’t really extend past the microwave. I mostly just stick to pasta, cereal, and sandwiches.”

“Those are all grains! You’ve got to let me cook for you sometime,” Harry pleads. He won’t let Louis condemn himself to death by carbohydrates.

“You don’t need to convince me, Harry. I’ll happily let you cook for me all the time,” Louis laughs. “Although I’m not sure what you could possibly whip up with that selection,” he says, peering into Harry’s basket. He’s got a box of multigrain crackers, an artichoke, a bunch of bananas, a block of extra sharp cheddar cheese, a carton of cage free eggs, and a half-gallon of coconut milk.

“These are just a few essentials, not meal plans,” Harry defends. “Cooking requires creativity and intent, Louis.”

Louis whistles. “Those are some heavy words – I expect to be impressed. How about I make something tonight so you have time to muster all of that inspiration?”

Harry hesitates. “Am I going to have to eat cornflakes?”

Louis levels Harry a wide grin. “Baby, for you I’ll break out the big guns.”

> <

“You know how you sometimes eat a certain food way too many times and then you just can’t eat it anymore? Like you ate it fifteen times the week you couldn’t leave your flat because you had a twenty page essay to write and now you’ve just completely lost your taste for it?” Louis calls from inside the fridge where he’s sorting out his yogurts.

“No, I dropped out of uni before I got to the twenty page essay part, remember? I also know more than five recipes,” Harry replies, sitting at Louis’ kitchen counter. He’s already put away his groceries that need to be refrigerated until he leaves Louis’ flat and is now waiting patiently for his promised meal, working on the Sudoku puzzle he found in the big bowl of odds and ends Louis has sitting on his counter. Most people have a drawer dedicated to their junk but Louis apparently likes having easy, open access to all of the things he’s never going to use. Harry had discovered a broken flashlight, six blue pens, a notepad, a pair of tongs, and a collapsible umbrella in the bowl before he’d uncovered the Sudoku book. Sitting there chewing on the end one of the blue pens and staring at the three numbers he has filled in, Harry tries to remember if he's always been this bad at Sudoku.

“Ha ha, no need to rub it in,” Louis intones, finally standing up and turning around with a handful of supplies. “My point is that even though I lived off cheese toasties all through uni, somehow they’re still so good. And do you wanna know why that is?”

“Why?” Harry asks obediently, scrawling in a seven on the puzzle.

“Because I make the best cheese toasties.”

“Hmm, guess we’ll see about that,” Harry says. He decides not to mention the pear, bacon, and Brie cheese toastie he’d made for himself the week before. It wasn’t a competition, after all.

“I’ll let you in on my secret. The key is mayo. You put it on the outside of the bread and then fry the whole sandwich in a pan. The bread gets this nice, even browning that has a bit of a crunch to it, and the cheese melts perfectly. Greasy and satisfying. It’s so much better than using butter,” Louis says as he sets about making their sandwiches.

Before Harry has even managed to come up with another number, his puzzle book is replaced by a plate and a fresh cheese toastie. He looks up with a small smile. “Thanks, Louis.”

“Don’t mention it,” Louis smiles back, settling in next to Harry with his own plate.

The American cheese is molten when Harry bites into the sandwich, dripping onto his fingers and burning his mouth, and the bread is crunchy just like Louis had said it would be. Harry is usually not one for processed cheese products but in this case it works. Not everything has to be gourmet to be delicious. It’s modest, and it’s warm, and it makes him want to force Louis to curl up on the couch with him as soon as they’re done eating. He has to admit it’s a good cheese toastie. “This is actually really great.”

Louis grins around a mouthful of cheese. “Told ya.”

Harry eats at the bakery often enough that he doesn't spend every meal alone, but having dinner with someone is one thing Harry had missed. A lot of things happen alone; work and chores and the little routines of being alive, but dinner was one daily activity you didn’t have to do by yourself. Harry had missed that. He hadn’t realized how much he longed for this easy companionship until he got it back. Until recently, Harry had never been a solitary person. He’d always had his family, and when he’d left Holmes Chapel, he’d had Eli. When Eli died of course there had been Niall and Ed, and Liam when he came to visit, but he’d eaten a lot of dinners by himself in the recent year, and he hadn’t even noticed how much he yearned for something different until now, sitting in companionable silence, eating with Louis. At least he’d managed to rope Louis into eating dinner with him more often back at the supermarket, before he even realized this is exactly what he wanted.

“So what are your plans for Friday?” Louis asks, interrupting Harry’s thoughts.

“Uh, it’s my day off. Laundry maybe? I think I’ll be about out of pants by then…”

“Well if there’s nothing more pressing than your pants, I’ve got a better idea. It’s a good thing you’re used to being up early anyway, because you’re officially invited to the only event during the summer I find worth waking up early for.”

“And what’s that?” Harry asks, stuffing the last bite of his cheese toastie into his mouth. He’s considering asking Louis to make him another.

“Rumor has it that they’re turning on the fountain in the square on Friday,” Louis says, dropping his voice, like he’s disclosing some kind of classified information.

Harry’s not sure he gets it. He’s seen the fountain before in passing – he certainly never made an effort to _visit_ it, it wasn’t any kind of attraction, more like a local landmark – and he definitely doesn’t know why Louis would think it’s worth getting up early for. It’s not that great of a fountain. The water just kind of shoots straight up into the air for a few meters and then falls to the side, usually missing the surrounding pool entirely. Harry thinks it’s supposed to have some kind cascading, umbrella effect but the wind always takes it away, soaking passersby instead. It might have a bit of a pressure problem too, come to think of it. Considering it’s such an ineffective fountain, it doesn’t get turned on very often, so Harry supposes that might make it a special event after all.

“Okay…” he says carefully, still not sure where Louis is going with this.

“I like to be the first one there to see it. It’s a personal tradition.”

Harry does not pretend to understand how Louis operates. He really doesn’t have anything to do on Friday though, so what the hell, he might as well go to the fountain. Harry briefly questions whether it’s such a good idea for Louis to spend this much time around him, however. They’ve hardly been apart, and that proximity probably won’t have great results for Louis given his unrequited match. Harry tries not to think about it.

“I’d be happy to come along then,” he says. “What time is it getting turned on?”

“Eight o’clock is what I’ve heard.”

Harry narrows his eyes at him. “Eight o’clock is not early, Louis.”

“It is when you get up in the afternoon every other day of the week. Don’t be an elitist. You’re not better than me just because your job makes you suffer,” Louis says. “I’ll be by to pick you up at half seven on Friday though, so look sharp.” Glancing at Harry’s empty plate, he smirks at him and says, “Would you like another cheese toastie, Harry?”

“Yes, please,” Harry beams, ignoring the smug look Louis gives him in response.

While Louis is frying the sandwiches, Harry cuts up the melon he bought at the store, figuring he better start incorporating nutritional value into Louis’ diet as soon as possible. When they’re done, they settle onto the couch with cheese toasties, a bowl of melon cubes to share, the Sudoku puzzle book, and an episode of some kind of home improvement show. Even though Harry starts at the armrest, Louis’ couch is so well worn they somehow end up pressed together on the center cushion, sucked in by the impressive sink in the middle. The couch is quite plush, and the feeling of getting absorbed into the stuffing makes Harry very drowsy.

They finish their dinner, a burly man knocks down a dividing wall on the telly, and Louis doesn’t even realize that Harry’s asleep until he stops filling in Louis’ Sudoku number suggestions, blue pen loose in his hand, head lolled to the side on the back of the couch, mouth gaping. Louis gives him a fond look and tips Harry’s head to rest on his own shoulder, soft curls tickling at his cheek; he wouldn’t want Harry to wake up with a crick on his neck. Louis nestles into Harry’s side, holding him around the waist, and lets the boy sleep.


	4. Chapter Four

Louis on the way to the fountain is a very different Louis than Harry has encountered before. In the milky light of the morning, it’s like Louis can’t find whatever energy it is that he feeds off of during the afternoon hours. He’s subdued, both in action and appearance, quietly humming along to the song he’s playing and blinking slowly like he’s still trying to wake up. He’s wearing a big, slouchy navy t-shirt, shorts, and glasses Harry has never seen. His hair isn’t styled or mussed, just swooping flat and smooth across his forehead. It looks so infinitely soft that Harry actually has to sit on his palms in order to prevent himself from combing his fingers through the hair on the back of Louis’ head. It wouldn’t feel quite right to do that.

After waking up snuggled in Louis’s arms on Monday, lips pressed to his neck, Harry decided he ought to enforce a little more distance between the two of them. The closeness had felt okay when he sought comfort from Louis, but accidentally sleeping halfway on top of him was different. Louis hadn’t seemed to mind that it happened, brushing off Harry’s repeated apologies, and that was exactly why Harry thought he should back off. Harry could cuddle Niall without hesitation or guilt, but it meant a lot more to Louis than it did to Niall. He probably yearned for proximity without even actively desiring it, that invisible tether unfurling in his chest and quietly reaching out to Harry to strengthen the match. Harry didn’t want to give Louis something that meant more to him than it did to Harry. He knew Louis didn’t have a choice, and that it was unfair of him to agree to be friends and then immediately distance himself within a week’s time, but he didn’t feel like there was another option.

He had a good thing with Louis, an instant intimacy that Harry hadn’t experienced in awhile. They fit together effortlessly, like the two wound cords of a rope, seamless and tight-knit. And it had just kind of happened too; they had gotten on so well right from the start, before they even really knew each other. As much as whatever that meant scared him, the thought of it ending scared Harry even more. So really, the distance was the result of plain, predictable fear. It was going to happen eventually, and putting space between them now was the only way he knew how to make sure their closeness wasn’t ruined sooner rather than later.

Maybe it was masochistic, or maybe it was just stupid to have agreed to this in the first place when Harry already knew how it would end. It made him a little queasy, how presumptuous it was, but Harry knew Louis would develop feelings for him eventually, practically imprint on him just like fate had arranged. It was only a question of when. Louis would look for something more, and Harry didn’t have any more to give. Harry didn’t know what would still be salvageable then, when they started looking at each other in two different ways. At that point the simplest solution would be to walk away, to sever the tie and free himself from the guilt left to fester in what would remain of their relationship.

But Harry knew he wouldn’t have it in him to abandon Louis completely when it came down to it; he couldn’t bear to condemn Louis to the same emptiness Harry carried inside himself now. And whether he could deny it to himself or not, Harry was already attached. He knew it made him a bad person to stick around when he saw that the course was set for disaster, that he could prevent a lot of pain for the both of them if he just didn’t allow anything to happen to begin with. But he craved Louis’ company. He cherished Louis’ soft eyes on him, and the way he kept Harry laughing, and all of his silly trips around town that coaxed Harry out of the solitude he’d resigned himself to. It was selfish, pure and true. Harry was unwilling to give up something that made him happy for a greater good, and in doing so he kept himself close enough, knowing full well that the immediacy gave room for feelings to spread.

It was a threefold problem without an obvious solution. Harry didn’t want Louis to fall in love with him, he couldn’t stay far enough away from Louis now to prevent it, and Harry wasn’t going to be able to leave when he did. So he had to make this work for as long as possible now, for both their sakes. A little distance left things to simmer but didn’t allow them to boil. It also left Harry with a cocktail of mixed emotions. He felt guilty about staying close and guilty about pushing himself away. He felt sad about denying himself their easy friendship and making things difficult. Mostly he felt relief, knowing that at least it was working to put off future pain. It may be uncomfortable now, avoiding Louis’ gaze and shying away from his touch, but Harry had learned a lot about self-preservation in the past few years.

The only problem was that Louis noticed everything.

“You’re all stuck in your head again, Harry,” he rasps, breaking their silence, voice still morning-raw. “It smells like burning batteries in here. What are you thinking so hard about?”

Harry clears his throat. “I didn’t know you wore glasses,” he says. Put it off, pretend there isn’t a problem. Classic.

Louis smiles a little but looks skeptical. “I’ve gotta maintain a shroud of mystery to keep things interesting for you. You don’t know the half of it.” He doesn’t press for another answer.

The fountain is located in the downtown plaza where parking is only available a few streets away, so Louis parks on a side street and they both stumble out of the car, setting off the rest of the way on foot. The morning air is pleasantly cool and the town is quiet, still working on waking up. Harry can’t hear any crashing water yet, so at least he knows they’re not late to the grand summer debut of the fountain. Louis yawns impressively as they turn the corner by the hole in the wall Chinese restaurant and then falls into step with Harry, reaching out to link their arms companionably. Harry affects a very exaggerated, very unconvincing stretch to avoid it, which again, Louis notices. Reacting to Harry’s sudden skittishness in the same manner as he had in the days prior, Louis looks at Harry confusedly but doesn’t say anything.

While spending his days working at the bakery provided a convenient avoidance tactic, Harry could tell Louis had known something was up as soon as Harry stayed distant and quiet on Tuesday, then excused himself early with the explanation that he needed to feed his cat. Any suspicions Louis had then were probably confirmed when Harry said he was feeling a bit poorly on Wednesday and wouldn’t be by Louis’ flat at all. On Thursday, Louis had been gracious enough not to say anything at all when they went out searching the charity shops for cookbooks and Harry had walked far enough away from Louis the whole time he might as well have not even been there. Harry had never been one for subtlety, and it was becoming quite obvious that he didn’t work well under pressure either.

No one else is around when they finally reach the plaza, the fountain still and lifeless. Louis stops at the edge with his hands on his hips and surveys the surrounding pool. Harry is frowning at the water, wondering if this has all been some kind of ruse, when Louis looks over to him and says, “Well. It appears as though we’re early,” before turning around and plopping down onto the wide ledge of the pool. “Care to sit?” he asks.

When Harry starts shuffling away to sit further down the ledge, Louis adds on an amused, “On the same side as me, maybe?”

Harry cringes, caught out, and drags his feet back to take a reluctant seat next to Louis. He knows what’s coming next before Louis even opens his mouth.

“So are you going to tell me what this hot and cold bit is about, Haz?” Louis asks, raising his eyebrows questioningly. “I know you’re overthinking things. If you’d just tell me what’s bothering you then _I_ can tell you to stop worrying, so _you_ can stop waffling about.”

Harry doesn’t understand how he’s managed to find so many people who can so easily corner him like this. Even though he’s sitting in the wide-open plaza, he still feels trapped, knowing he’s seconds away from spilling his heart out to Louis. Again. He really needs to build up more of a tolerance to piercing gazes. Most of the time Harry is happy to have people in his life that are willing to call him out on his bullshit, but not as much when he’s being made to talk about the things he would rather not discuss. Which seems to be the reoccurring pattern nowadays.

Harry sighs. “I don’t mean to…waffle. I’m just trying to prevent…certain things from happening. I’m sorry I’m being like this. I know we agreed to not to be weird about it, but the more I think about everything the more I can see how…badly it’s all going to go.”

Louis looks very unimpressed. “Harry, why didn’t you mention that you were a fortune teller?!” he gasps, feigning astonishment. “That might be the most interesting thing about you and all you told me is that you have four nipples and can juggle.”

Harry sighs even more long-sufferingly. Why did he think this would be easy? “I’m not a fortune tell–”

“Well then stop thinking like you know what’s going to happen,” Louis snaps.

“But I’ve been through this before, Louis,” Harry says, shifting to face him. His hands are clasped together like he’s begging Louis to understand. “I know what the matching is like. As much as we can pretend that isn’t what this is, it’s not going to help. You’re not my soulmate. The longer we ignore that the more it’s going to hurt. This whole relationship – friendship, whatever – means more to you than it does to me.”

Louis recoils at that, hurt flashing in his eyes. “Jesus, don’t spare my feelings, Harry. That makes me feel fucking great. I get that I’m not your match but I thought you were sticking around for more than just to appease me. Because you’ve got some kind of misplaced sense of pity for me and the ‘unrequited love’ you seem to think I have.”

Harry groans in frustration. “You know that’s not what I meant! I’m not here because I feel sorry for you, I’m here because I want to be around you. All the time! I think you’re great, you _know_ that. But that’s the problem, being around you is only going to make things worse. The feelings you have, or will have, they – they run deeper than mine. We’re looking for two different things here, and I don’t have what you’re looking for at all.”

Louis looks pissed now. “That’s so fucking presumptuous, Harry. You have no idea how I feel. Or what I want. And apparently you’ve forgotten that I haven’t _asked_ for _anything_ from you either.”

“Okay, fine. You’re right, I don’t know how you feel. And you haven’t asked for anything but _you won’t have to_. It’s going to happen anyway. That’s what the matches _do_. They make you fall in love.”

“So you’ve decided to martyr yourself because you assume I can’t control my feelings,” Louis laughs bitterly. “That’s rich. To tell you the truth, pal, you are not doing me any favors by trying to save me and making us both miserable in the process.”

“That’s not what I wanted to happen!” Harry argues, exasperated. He stops to take a breath and lowers his voice again. “I just thought things would be better if I didn’t give you the opportunity to get attached. Like, the connection is already there but if I stayed a little further away, you couldn’t get any closer. I want to be your friend so badly but it feels so self-defeating. You and I? It won’t work,” he finishes miserably.

“Well you’ve obviously thought an awful fucking lot about this,” Louis spits. “Thanks for talking to me about it before you decided what was best, it’s not like it involves me or anything.”

Harry flinches. The longer this goes on, the more he hates all of it. He hates the coldness in Louis’ eyes and the acid in his voice. He hates that Louis is looking at him like he’s a completely different person. He hates that he somehow took Louis’ tenderness and turned him coarse. Where the morning had started out so calm, even the sunlight seems harsher now.

Louis continues. “But I guess what I think and want is irrelevant isn’t it? I don’t get a say in any of it, do I?”

And that’s just it. That’s the root of the whole problem. It’s not about their relationship - it’s not really about Louis at all. It’s about that same thing that has had Harry choking on bitterness since Eli’s death, turning him cynical.

“That’s just the thing isn’t it?” Harry laughs wretchedly, scraping his fingers through his hair. “You don’t _have_ a choice. You didn’t _choose_ me. I didn’t have a choice either, and look where it got me. None of us have a choice! You get someone picked for you, and that’s the only option you have, the one chance you get. And it’s the fucking worst thing in the world. We’re getting sold something no one even asked for, and we act like it’s a gift, not a fucking scam.”

Harry scrubs a frustrated hand over his face. He can feel the pressure building behind his eyes, can tell that if he gets any more upset he’ll be crying. He takes a deep, quaking breath to try and calm down before continuing softly, unhappily, “We don’t choose how we feel. You _can’t_ choose how you feel about me. And I don’t have what you need, what you’re going to want from me. I’m – I’m empty, Louis. That’s not a good combination. That’s how I know how bad this is going to be.”

Louis stares at Harry, the hardness and anger completely drained from his eyes. “Is that really what you think?” he asks quietly. Harry doesn’t even know which part Louis is referring to but he offers the tiniest of nods anyway. All of it is exactly what he thinks.

Scooting down the ledge, Louis closes the distance that's come between them. He reaches a hand out like he’s about to stroke Harry’s arm before he seems to think better of it. Harry stares resolutely at his lap, refusing to meet Louis’ gaze.

“We aren’t puppets, Harry. Matching isn’t part of some grand scheme, robbing us of free will. You keep saying I don’t have a choice but I _do_. You’re my _friend_. Just like you said, I’m here because I want to be, not because I’m being influenced by some uncontrollable force making me fall in love with you. I have choices, and I make them willingly,” Louis says. “You have _got_ to stop reading so much fucking Nietzsche.”

Harry looks up at that, letting out an offended little laugh. “I don’t read fucking Nietzsche.”

“Well sorry, but you do seem to have a lot in common with him,” Louis says, smiling wryly. “This is all so fatalistic I feel like I’m developing an ulcer just by hearing it. You’re thinking about the matches all wrong. They give us someone we’re connected to, but they don’t force us to be together. They don’t _make_ us fall in love, like you say they do. I like to think there’s more to it than that.”

“But have you ever met anyone who _didn’t_ fall in love with their match?” Harry argues. Louis doesn’t say anything. Harry hates being self-righteous. “That doesn’t sound like much of a choice to me. You won’t be able to deny it either.”

“That’s not up to you though, Harry. You can’t just ice me out because you think it’ll turn out better if you don’t give me the option,” Louis says. “And who _chooses_ to fall in love anyway? Who _chooses_ to feel anything? I don’t _decide_ to be pissed at you because you’re being an arsehole, I don’t _decide_ to feel happy, or sad, or anything. It just happens. So I guess you’re right, it’s not a choice. But it’s not a – a demand either. Did you feel like something _forced_ you fall in love with Eli?”

No. It had been so easy.

Louis doesn’t wait for an answer. “You’re closing yourself off to so much by thinking that fate or god or the universe or whatever has some impossible control over your feelings. That’s not how it works. At all. Your feelings aren’t forced on you. If you’d just let yourself have them as your own again I think you’d be a lot happier.”

Harry’s not convinced. Mostly he just wants Louis to stop lecturing him. “Do you teach philosophy too, Louis?” he teases.

“No, but I did read enough Sartre in all of my theater classes to have an opinion,” Louis says. “You should try him instead of Nietzsche. Sartre says we’re condemned to be free. Still pessimistic enough for you to jerk off to –”

“Heyyyyy –”

“– but at least he supports my argument. Embrace your free will Harry! Our lives and actions are in our own hands to fuck up! Is that not beautiful?”

Harry just sighs deeply. “If you say so.”

“I do. I do say so. Existentialism!” Louis throws his head back and shouts at the top of his lungs, laughing as his cry echoes around the empty square. A few pigeons that were puttering around the fountain take off in a flurry of beating wings. Harry laughs wildly beside Louis, sprawling himself out across the ledge and holding his stomach. Apparently a rousing argument was all it took for Louis to find his zest for the day.

As their giggles subside, Louis schools his face into some kind of look of sober determination and paws at Harry until he sits up again. “Harry –” he begins seriously.

“Oi! Why the fuck are you screaming nonsense at my fountain before eight in the fucking morning?” a ginger-haired man with a surly expression interrupts as he rounds the corner.

Abandoning whatever knowledge he was about to impart, Louis throws his hands in the air in delight and springs up off the fountain. “Oliver!” he cries, dashing over and throwing an arm around the man’s shoulders, dragging him over to where Harry is still sitting. “About time you got here, I thought maybe I’d heard the wrong rumor about the fountain.”

“Yeah, right. Hard to hear it wrong when you’re getting your information directly from the source,” Oliver, presumably, says, rolling his eyes before turning to Harry. “Who’s this then? You don’t usually bring company.”

Harry, feeling a little self-conscious under Oliver's scrutiny, attempts to inconspicuously adjust the headscarf that’s fallen half off his head, carefully tucking the silk back into his curls.

“Oliver, this is Harry. He’s my soulmate but I’m not his so don’t ask questions. It’s all very complicated and we’re not handling it well,” Louis rattles off. Harry just gapes at him, astounded by how casually Louis has introduced him despite the fact that they were yelling at each other over the very same issue not minutes ago. “Harry, this is Oliver. He works for the city and tells me when he’s going to turn the fountain on. Friends in high places, you know how it is,” Louis continues, patting Oliver on the shoulder.

Oliver grimaces. “It’s just Oli, actually,” he says, reaching out to shake Harry’s hand. Blessedly, he doesn’t ask questions. “Good to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too,” Harry says.

Louis stops to watch them interact for a moment, intrigued, before clapping his hands together and saying, “Enough with the pleasantries, gentlemen. I’ve been waiting weeks for this Oli, so if you would please just get on with it…”

Oli squawks in indignation but stalks away nevertheless, evidently to do whatever it is that turns the fountain on. Harry has no idea what sort of mechanics are involved in fountain technology. He thinks he can hear Oli muttering something about disrespect as he walks away, so he turns to Louis.

“That was very rude, Lou,” he admonishes.

“I said please,” Louis argues back, petulant. He waves off Oli’s retreating figure. “He’s used to it anyway. We’ve been mates ‘s long as I can remember.”

“Is that where the tradition started then?” Harry asks. He still hasn’t figured out why he’s out of bed early on his day off to watch a fountain get turned on.

“Nah, it’s really just a happy coincidence that Oli works for the city now. I started coming here by accident, actually,” he pauses to chuckle at whatever the corresponding memory is. “When I was eleven I got a shit mark on an exam and decided running away from home would be easier than telling my mum about it. So I got up early that Saturday, packed a backpack with a couple pairs of pants and granola bars and left, never to see my family again. Didn’t make it any farther than here though. Granted, this was a pretty long ways away from my house when I was eleven and on foot, so I had to stop to take a break. It seemed safe to sit down since the fountain wasn’t running, and I happily went about eating a granola bar, minding my own business. And then it turned on out of nowhere. You know how the fountain is, you can never tell where it’s going to go. And on that particular day it landed on me. Soaked me straight through. Running away didn’t seem like quite as good of an idea then, after I’d encountered the horrors of the world. I had to walk all the way back home, completely sopping wet. Ruined my new trainers and everything.”

“Well that sounds like a perfectly good reason to never come back again,” Harry frowns. “Why are we here?”

“It’s like the Louis Tomlinson New Year. When I was eleven I learned I couldn’t run away from my problems and had to pay for my mistakes. I come here every year to start anew again,” Louis says, waving a hand dramatically. Harry thinks Louis talks a lot of shit. “To wash away all of my wrongs, as it happened on that fateful day.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “Wait, are we going to have to get _in_?”

Louis snorts. “I wouldn’t recommend it, the water is very cold. So you should probably get away from there before you get soaked too,” Louis says, offering Harry a hand and helping him up off the ledge. They both back away to a safe distance to watch and wait.

The minutes crawl by and nothing happens. Harry can’t tell if the feeling setting in his gut is anticipation or ennui.

“Is this some kind of weird initiation ritual now? Do you make everyone come to the fountain? Am I going to be baptized in its healing waters?” Harry questions.

Louis chuckles. “Nope, considering you’re the first one to come with.” Harry tries to ignore the implications of that, as well as the warmth pooling somewhere in the vicinity of his lungs. “We could start a ritual though, if you’re interested.”

“No, thanks.”

“Are you sure? I think it’d be kind of fun to dunk you – wooooow,” Louis cuts himself off with an awed gasp as the fountain finally springs to life in front of them.

It sputters at first as the water pressure builds up, but soon enough it's crashing down into the pool and onto the pavement on the opposite side of Harry and Louis in all its glory. It’s exactly as uninspiring as Harry remembers it being. Somehow it feels a bit grander when Louis watches it with such wonderment next to him though, like Louis’ enthusiasm alone makes things a little bit brighter. Harry can’t help but think that the kind of glow Louis carries around with him is bound to shine on everything around him. It’s that same glow that makes buying groceries, or lazing on Louis’ busted couch, or arguing with him over the proper pronunciation of the word ‘mascarpone’ feel like some of the best things Harry has done in recent memory. The same glow that makes Harry feel a little lighter. It’s the same glow that Harry can see in Louis’ bright eyes now while he happily watches the fountain, utterly carefree. He looks younger, and Harry can almost see eleven-year-old Louis in the features of his face.

Harry shakes himself out of his thoughts and manages to wrench his eyes away from Louis when he realizes he’s actually supposed to be watching the fountain, not admiring the angles of Louis’ face. The fountain is a lot less captivating than Louis, though. Harry just sort of nods his head at it solemnly, like he’s studying a complicated piece of art.

“This is nice,” he comments after several minutes of silent contemplation.

Louis looks up at him apprehensively, like he can’t tell what sort of feeling Harry’s monotone suggests. “Really? I know it’s kind of dumb little thing. Sorry I dragged you out of bed –”

“Hey, no. It’s not dumb,” Harry interrupts with a frown. “I’m glad I came along. It’s nice seeing the things that make people happy. Even if it’s just the little things,” he says, brushing his knuckles down Louis’ shoulder reassuringly.

Louis smiles at him warmly and turns back to the fountain. “Okay. We’ve just got one more thing to do then,” he says, digging into the pockets of his shorts and coming up with a handful of coins. He presses one into Harry’s palm and keeps another for himself. “We have to make a wish.”

Harry eyes the coin hesitantly. “I don’t think this is a wishing fountain, Lou…”

Louis sighs. “Always by the book, aren’t you Harry? I think it can be a wishing fountain if we want it to be. Who decides if a fountain grants wishes or not anyway?”

Harry doesn’t really have an answer for that.

“Although now that you mention it, I have to wonder where all the money I’ve put in over the years has gone,” Louis muses, head tilted to the side.

Harry considers it for a moment. “Elective taxes?”

Louis snaps his fingers at him. “You are exactly right. And what a generous contributor I’ve been.” Louis takes Harry by the elbow and guides them closer to the fountain. “Now,” he says, raising his voice over the crashing water. “Because you’ve pointed out that this isn’t a real wishing fountain after all, I think I’m going to instate a new rule. Since we don’t have to worry about ruining our wishes, I think we should tell each other what we’re wishing for.”

“Okay?” Harry says. He curses internally. He hadn’t had a wish in mind and now he really has to think of something good since he can’t just fake it.

“Great, I’ll go first.” Louis holds the coin out in front of him, closes his eyes, and says, “I wish that Harry would stop overthinking everything since we’ve only known each other for _a week_ , which is not very long at all. And I wish that Harry would just let things happen on their own and not worry so much about it, because he might be surprised at how okay things turn out to be.”

He flips the coin and it lands into the water with a satisfying _plunk_. He turns to Harry with a beatific smile.

Harry levels him with an unimpressed look. “I think that was technically two wishes.”

“Hush. It’s your turn.”

Harry sighs and closes his eyes. Maybe Louis is right; maybe things won’t end in tragedy. Maybe Harry’s being overdramatic and distance isn’t the solution. Maybe he should stop trying to interfere. It’s not really his place to decide what’s best for Louis, after all. Maybe he should just let things happen, like Louis said. Maybe he will be surprised. What’s he got to lose, really? Only Louis, and he seems set on taking the risk anyway. A breeze sweeps across the plaza and Harry feels the spray from the fountain mist delicately across face. Harry decides to take a chance too.

“I hope Louis is right,” he says and flips the coin into the pool.

Harry opens his eyes again to find Louis smiling up at him softly. Louis reaches out to link their arms. This time, Harry doesn’t pull away.


	5. Chapter Five

Harry doesn’t realize just how much of his time has been monopolized by Louis until Niall texts him the afternoon before their biweekly pub night. Harry’s sprawled halfway off his couch, Calliope lying across his stomach, when a text reading ‘ _Are we still on for tonight ?'_ interrupts his game of Fish Out of Water, promptly followed by, ‘ _Dont know if you remember me but its your best mate Niall. Whats goin on ? Talk t me !!!'_ Harry snorts at that, then feels a little guilty for unintentionally keeping Niall out of the loop. He was still in the process of catching everybody up.

It was only after days of nervous deliberation that Harry had finally managed to talk to both his mum and Gemma. He'd desperately wanted to hear their thoughts on the issue but had been afraid that they would tell him off for getting involved with Louis, that they’d take his friendship with Louis as a betrayal of Eli – his mum and Gemma loved Eli just as much as Harry. After he recounted every sordid detail of his and Louis’ story though, they of course had been nothing but supportive, happy to hear about Harry’s happiness. Gemma just teased Harry for all of his rambling, overzealous descriptions of Louis and his daily ventures Harry had gotten involved in.

“Glad to hear that someone’s been getting you out of the house, pup,” she’d tittered. “Daily exercise is important. And you’ve been acting like a damn pensioner lately. I’m happy that this Louis bloke has finally broken the mold.”

Of course she’d wanted to see what Louis looked like after that, so Harry sent her the nice picture he’d forced Louis to take for his contact photo – “and you have to _smile,_ Lou. NO do not cross your eyes like that” – to which she replied with, ‘ _Harry you sly dog_ ,’ four smirking emojis included. Harry didn’t know what that was supposed to mean but he thought comparing him to a dog twice in one conversation was a bit heavy-handed and refused to dignify her message with a response. Anne had been a lot gentler, laughing softly at his stories and asking all of the important, motherly-type questions. In the end she had made Harry promise to bring Louis by sometime soon and asked him to “Please just be careful, baby.”

Considering his mum and Gemma hadn’t disinherited him, Harry figures it will be even easier to tell Niall the whole sorry soulmate tale. And geographically, Niall is a lot closer than his family, so he might as well just get the introduction done at the same time. Harry swipes over to his contacts and texts Louis about coming along to pub night. Then he responds to Niall, ‘ _Of course we’re still on!'_ followed by ‘ _Mind if I bring someone else with too? It’ll be easier to explain why I’ve been MIA_.’ Louis replies with ‘ _I’m in_ ’ at the same time Niall says ‘ _Course_.’

Friday nights at The Manhattan Club are both the best and busiest, because Friday night means trivia night. Though the name ‘The Manhattan Club’ may be misleading, seeing as the establishment is neither as trendy as Manhattan nor a club at all (more like a local dive), the pub has a good jukebox and a booth Harry has claimed as his own, so it serves his purposes well enough. Twice a month, trivia night also lines up with the two-for-one drink special, which is why Harry and Niall have had a standing biweekly appointment with the Club for almost three years running. Harry and Niall are terrible at trivia, though. They keep going only in the hopes that it will expand their knowledge base so someday they might win the coveted souvenir cup. The drinks are served in twos all night as well - that doesn’t hurt their attendance either.

Because trivia Fridays are the busiest, Harry and Niall always meet up early enough to save their booth before the crowds come in. Their punctuality doesn’t help to improve their trivia skills much, since the extra time always has them on the wrong side of inebriated before the game even starts. Louis can only be a helpful addition to their team. There’s no way they could be any worse _with_ him.

While they wait for Louis to arrive, Harry tries to explain most of the HarryandLouis situation to Niall. He takes it all in stride, of course, just as Harry had expected him to. Niall had plenty of his own experience with the idiosyncrasies of matching: he didn’t have a soulmate tattoo at all. Harry had learned a bit about that particular phenomenon in his human sexuality course before he dropped out, terms like aromanticism and demisexuality and how they came to affect soulmate matches. When Harry had asked him about it though, Niall merely shrugged.

“I keep meself to meself,” he’d said. “I’m me own man, Harry.”

And that was that. It’s a nonissue to Niall, so it’s a nonissue to Harry too. Just like how Louis is a nonissue now. Harry loves Niall.

They’ve almost finished their first round of drinks when Harry spots Louis at the door. He stands up in the booth to beckon him over to their table, grinning widely and waving his arms wildly.

“Lads!” Louis greets over the din of the pub when he reaches them, sliding into Harry’s side of the booth. “Are we ready to win?”

Niall guffaws loudly, eyes shining with mirth. “I wouldn’t count on it, mate.”

Louis beams back at him; Niall’s exuberance is nothing if not infectious. “Is that an Irish accent I hear? You must be Niall.”

“That’s me, Niall Horan,” he says, reaching across the table to shake Louis’ hand.

“Louis Tomlinson, Harry’s told me a lot about you,” Louis says. “Is it true that there’s a statue of your likeness erected in the town of Mullingar?”

Niall cackles madly again, and if Harry had any concerns about the two of them clashing, they’re immediately put to rest as Niall and Louis set off chattering like they’ve been friends for years. They’re two of the loudest, brightest, and warmest people Harry has ever known, and he feels so at peace with the world as he fondly watches them holler at each other about Derby County, the appropriate ratio of green peppers on a pizza, and a wealth of other topics Harry can barely keep up with. He’s content to tuck himself quietly into the corner of the booth, happily watching their conversation tennis with a big grin on his face. Louis seems to notice his silence after a while and offers Harry a small smile, tucking his fingers under Harry’s thigh as if to remind him that he still holds Louis’ attention, to say a quiet hello. Harry feels warm all over, and he’s not sure if its because of the alcohol or Louis’ gentle attentiveness. He’s not sure if it matters.

Taking the last swig of his beer, Harry reaches over to squeeze Louis’ knee lightly. “I’ll get the next round,” he says. “What do you want to drink? It’s two-fers so you have to commit to a double.”

Louis considers it for a moment. “Something fruity, please.”

“Now that I can get behind,” Harry says, grinning. He really only drinks beers during trivia night because that’s what Niall always has and he doesn’t want to get more plastered than him. Harry is more than ecstatic to drink cocktails with Louis. “Finally, someone with taste.”

“I resent that!” Niall protests as Louis shuffles out of the booth so Harry can head to the bar.

Harry orders them both something with a stupid name made with Kinky Pink because it’s the fruitiest and funniest thing on the menu and gets Niall his pints. He picks up a bowl of bar nuts too and manages to return to the table without dropping anything. He slips back into the booth next to Louis as a waitress brings around the blank trivia sheets and pencils.

Louis eyes the answer sheet and whistles. “This is serious business, innit?”

“Very serious,” Harry nods gravely, swirling his drink. “You’re not allowed to have your phone out or anything. If you get caught with it your whole team forfeits the game.”

“Even if you’re only checking a text,” Niall adds. “It’s a zero tolerance policy.”

“So no cheating.”

“All we’ve got are our wits.”

“Noted,” Louis says, nodding seriously. “Are you guys any good at this?”

Harry and Niall look at each other. “We’re terrible,” they say in unison.

Louis laughs. “Well it’s a good thing you’ve got me then.”

They start off strong. The first question is, “What city is the classic American board game Monopoly based off of?” to which Harry shrieks delightedly and scribbles Atlantic City onto their answer sheet. They all clink their glasses together and cheer raucously, assured that this is the round they finally win. Things only get worse from there. They don’t know who Jimmy Jewel’s partner in comedy was, or what kind of animal a kolinsky is, or where the Nazca Lines are located. They guess Stephen Fry, a lizard, and Bolivia without any overwhelming feeling of confidence. Louis writes down croquet for “Which sport begins in front of the South Stake?” and Niall says four for “How many official languages does Switzerland recognize?” Their answer sheet ends up with more doodles on it than words.

The problem with trivia night is that there’s a twenty minute wait between each question, which gives the participants plenty of time to get sloshed over the course of the game and forget everything they know. By the time it’s over and the answers are being called out, Harry, Louis, and Niall are decidedly more glassy-eyed and giggly than they were when they started. Niall has taken to shaking Louis’ hand after every funny thing he says, which, to Niall, is almost everything Louis says.

“We were so close!” Harry cries, distraught between his giggles. “Bolivia is right next to Peru!”

“It’s okay, Haz,” Louis consoles, petting his curls. “Look, we still got three right! Look how much I know about croquet! And Niall’s so smart, he knows a lot about the world, I know this.”

Niall flushes under the compliment. Harry crumples up the answer sheet and tosses it over his shoulder, unconcerned about the people sitting in the booth behind them. The bartender announces the winning team and everyone in the pub boos. Sportsmanship is not a key aspect of trivia night.

“Bastards!” Louis shouts. Harry slaps a hand over his mouth, giggling as he holds a finger to his lips and shushes him. Their faces are so close Harry can feel Louis’ warm breath on his cheek. They’ve probably had too many vodka-based drinks.

Harry is so happy he let Louis talk him out of his doubts last week. Why would he ever want to be far away from Louis when being next to Louis is so nice? He’s warm and his arm fits perfectly around Harry’s middle. Harry loves being held. And Louis’ hands are small but Harry feels like they hold so much of him. They don’t stay still. They’re gripping his waist, or running down his back, or squeezing his bicep, or carding through his hair. Harry feels like he’s melting.

It’s after Louis declares he’s going to get more drinks, peeling Harry off of his chest and stumbling out of the booth, that Niall turns his wicked grin to Harry. Niall is a lot more observant than one would expect him to be after five and half pints.

“Ya know, I’m glad it’s Louis,” he says. “He’s great. And I’m happy for you.”

Harry attempts to focus in on Niall, shaking his head to clear away some of the liquor haze. “What do you mean?”

“Like I know things were rough after Eli, but I’m glad you’re giving yourself a chance again,” Niall says. “It sucked seeing you so lonely. Louis makes you not lonely.”

A confused laugh escapes Harry’s lips before he can stop it. “I suppose? I mean…we’re friends. You make me not lonely too, Ni.”

“Louis’ different though. All I’m saying is that I’m happy you’re happy.”

“I was happy before.”

“I know you were. Happi _er_ , then,” Niall corrects. “Louis makes you glow a little more. Losing your soulmate is nasty business but you don’t have to be alone. It’s good that you can see that now, despite everything.”

Harry’s frown deepens. He doesn’t understand. He might be too drunk for this.

“I think I’m too drunk for this,” Harry says, after what was probably too long of a time to leave Niall waiting for a response. Everything’s gone a bit wobbly.

Niall laughs, shaking his head fondly. “I reckon you are, mate. You and Lou are gonna feel like shit tomorrow.”

“C’mon, have a little more faith than that, Niall!” Louis crows as he returns to the booth, depositing a final round of drinks on the table and slotting himself into Harry’s side again. Their newest cocktail is orange and tastes like creamsicle.

“I don’t have any faith in the number of different colored drinks you two have had,” Niall scoffs. “Mixing is bad news, you’ll be puking rainbows. I’m dumping you both at Harry’s after this and washing my hands of any further nonsense. Your drunk arses can take care of yourselves.”

“We’ll be fine,” Louis drawls, draping himself over Harry once more.

They finish their drinks and split a taxi to Harry’s house, where Niall has to coax them out of the cab, shepherd them to the front door, and fish Harry’s key out of his pocket for him. Then, true to his word, Niall makes sure they both get in alright before leaving them behind in a heap on Harry’s couch with nothing more than a “See you fuckers later!” called over his shoulder.

“Will he be okay?” Louis asks after the door closes behind Niall.

“Yeah, he’ll be fine. His place is only a few streets down. He walks all the time,” Harry assures. He’s sprawled halfway off the couch once again but is now decidedly much worse for wear. The whole world is turning and his mouth feels dry and cottony. He leans back against the armrest and hides his face in the crook of his elbow. He must be moaning a bit too, because Louis rolls off the couch to crouch at his side and begins stroking his cheek lightly.

“Are you gonna be sick, babe?”

“Ugh, as long as you don’t talk about it.”

“Okay. Should we just go to bed then? Do you need to brush your teeth or anything?”

Harry mumbles some kind of dissent. “Just take me to bed, please.”

Louis can’t help but smile at that. “If only sober you could hear you now. He would have an absolute fit.”

Louis manhandles Harry into bed and tucks him in. He hopes Harry doesn’t mind sleeping in his skintight jeans because he certainly doesn’t have the willpower to wrangle them off right now. He does take off his shoes and belt, at least. Harry’s already halfway to passed out by the time he finishes, and Louis rubs his back to get his attention again. “Haz, where are your extra blankets? You can’t let me freeze on that couch.”

“Jussleep here,” Harry slurs.

And, well, Louis is not going to argue with that at two in the morning. Harry can feel sorry for his dignity tomorrow. Louis ventures out of the room to lock the front door and turn off all of the lights in the house. He drinks a whole glass of water before filling a glass for each of them and placing them on the nightstands. He even puts the largest bowl he can find in the kitchen next to Harry’s side of the bed, just in case. Then he pulls off his jeans – only almost falling over twice – and finally crawls under the covers next to Harry. Louis falls asleep thinking that this is the first time he’s actually been in Harry’s house, lulled into unconsciousness by Harry’s snuffling breaths.

> <

The next morning, Harry wakes up with a start and a groan when Louis flops down next to him on the bed. He immediately wishes he was still unconscious. A few things become clear all at once: he can hear rain pattering against the window above him, he smells like booze, and there’s what feels like a knife stabbing behind his right eye. He presses the heel of his palm into his eye socket to try to relieve the pain. It doesn’t work.

Louis must notice his troubled return to consciousness. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispers, watching Harry carefully. “Had to wee.”

Harry rolls over to face him, still holding his head, and cracks an eye open. The bleary morning light is very unforgiving on his pounding head. Louis looks nice though, all wrapped up in Harry’s white duvet with heavy-lidded morning eyes and his hair sticking up in every direction. He also looks a lot less hungover than Harry. Prick.

“Why did you do this to me?” Harry moans.

Louis laughs at him. “This is hardly my fault! I had the same number of drinks as you. You’re just a lightweight,” he says, poking Harry once in the chest.

Harry groans again.

“Hmm, thought you might say that. I found this in the bathroom for you,” Louis says, reaching over his shoulder to pick up a bottle of paracetamol from the nightstand. If Harry were functioning enough to be polite he’d thank Louis for quietly digging the pills out instead of noisily shaking the whole bottle next to his throbbing head. Instead he gratefully accepts the medicine and gulps the pills down with the water waiting conveniently on his nightstand. Louis’ drunken foresight was astounding.

“Thanks for taking care of me,” Harry murmurs as he gingerly lays his head back down. “Hope I wasn’t too awful last night.” He remembers getting into a cab and not much else after that.

“Not a problem, you were very cooperative. And I had a great time trying to find everything in your house. Consider your cabinets sufficiently rummaged through.”

“Ugh, sorry about that,” Harry winces. “I’m a terrible host.”

“S’alright, I managed. I’m sorry you had to sleep in your jeans,” Louis offers. Harry lifts up the duvet to check. He is still wearing his jeans. “I didn’t feel like peeling them off your legs for you.”

Harry chuckles. “I think I’ll make it.”

The rain gets louder against the window as it starts coming down in sheets. Harry is thankful for it; he feels no obligation to be a contributing member of society in spite of his hangover if it’s pouring outside. He deserves a rainy day. He finds that if he concentrates on the sound of the rain he also feels a little less nauseous. Louis nestles further into his pillow as Harry slowly massages at his brow, attempting to will himself back into the land of the living.

“And I’m sorry that I slept in your bed too. If that’s not what you wanted,” Louis murmurs after a long stretch of quiet, absentmindedly twirling a loose string from the duvet around his finger. “I asked about the couch but you insisted.”

“Were you afraid of upsetting my delicate sensibilities?” Harry laughs, not even opening his eyes. “Don’t worry about it. I would've let you sleep here even if I had been sober.”

“…Really?”

“Yeah, sure. The bed’s warmer with two. And less lonely.”

Harry regrets that admission pretty quickly, but he doesn’t try to take it back. He wishes the paracetamol would work faster so he could think about what he’s saying and not about how much his head hurts. Hesitantly, Harry glances over at Louis to gauge his reaction. He’s biting his lip sadly and looks like he’s trying to decide on the best, most gentle way to respond.

“Never mind,” Harry cuts in before he gets the chance. “I’m going to go shower, I feel like there’s vodka leaking out of my pores.” He waggles his fingers at himself in distaste. “There’s shirts in the top left drawer if you’d like a fresh one. Or you can shower after me, I don’t care.”

He tries to make a speedy getaway after that, but rising out of bed takes a lot of extra caution when his head throbs and stomach lurches alarmingly at the movement. When he can finally stand up safely, he nearly trips over the bowl waiting next to him on the floor.

“Louis?” Harry questions slowly, holding himself up by the bedpost. “Were you going to use my best mixing bowl as a puke bucket?”

“Better that than your nice carpet, Harold!” Louis replies tetchily.

Harry shakes his head sorrowfully and makes his way to the bathroom.

Once they’re both freshly showered, Harry puts on his playlist in the kitchen and sets about preparing an eggs benedict. It’s afternoon already but in Harry’s opinion, there’s never a time that’s too late for breakfast food. They’re both dressed down in Harry’s most well-worn joggers and softest jumpers, and Louis is positively swimming in Harry’s clothes. Harry thinks it only contributes to the lazy rainy day aesthetic they appear to be going for.

“I take it you’re feeling better,” Louis says from the table, chin in his hand as he watches Harry whistling while he works.

Harry shrugs. “Threw up in the shower twice.”

Louis gapes at him blankly. “…And now you’re making us eggs.”

“And now I’m making us eggs,” Harry confirms.

“You are a marvel, Harry Styles.”

Harry chuckles and starts digging out his saucepans. He puts water on to boil for the poached eggs, retrieves the Canadian bacon, and combines the lemon juice and vinegar for the hollandaise sauce. While he waits for his sticks of butter to melt, Harry pauses to watch Louis as he surveys the house. Harry didn’t have any particular reason for never inviting Louis over before - it was usually Louis who had the plans, so it had always seemed easier to meet up at his flat. As Louis’ eyes roam, Harry wonders what he sees.

His house is small, but open. Harry and Eli never needed a lot of space for the two of them. The kitchen flows into the living room, where a hallway leads to the laundry, the bathroom, and Harry’s bedroom. There are large windows in every room, which makes the house bright and welcoming when it’s not blustery and pouring rain outside. The walls are painted in light, neutral tones and the floors are dark – Harry had been the one to insist on that design scheme, citing his many hours spent watching the home and gardening channel.

“It creates definition in a small space!” he’d asserted.

“Yes, but darker woods make spots easier to see,” Eli had argued back.

“The dark floors add drama, Eli!”

Harry had won in the end. Contrast was important. The plain walls have since been covered in tasteful art pieces over the years, all except for the one kitschy Terry Redlin print Harry and Eli had somehow acquired when they first moved into their flat together. The painting is Americana scenery at its worst, with its fading sunset and browning grass over flowing hills, the deer peeking out from behind a tree and the clapboard church. Harry hates the picture and had made many attempts to make it mysteriously vanish during their move to the house, but apparently he can't escape it. It's still hanging in the hallway.

Surveying the living room, Harry can tell it’s currently well deserving of a good cleaning. The bric-a-brac on the bookshelf and the lamps on the end tables are covered in a fine layer of dust. The piano pushed into the corner still has sheet music and books scattered across the top. The throw pillows are living up to their name, having been thrown into a pile on the loveseat, and Harry’s collection of blankets are strewn across the furniture and spilling onto the floor. Mostly the room just looks lived-in. Harry isn’t embarrassed about it; Louis’ flat is always in various states of disarray, he won't mind the mess.

Harry wonders if Louis can see any of Eli’s touch still lingering in the house. Probably not since he never knew Eli, but Harry can see it now, even while looking at his home through Louis’ eyes. There are dusty engineering textbooks resting on the bookshelf next to an old classroom globe with pushpins in it, marking all the places Eli had traveled. There are pictures of Harry and Eli with each other’s families – only strangers to Louis – and pictures of just Harry and Eli together scattered around the house. Louis couldn’t miss those. They’re sitting up in frames on the shelves and there’s one on Harry’s dresser in the bedroom. They’re stuck to the fridge with those make-a-sentence word magnets, mingled in with shots of Niall and Ed and uni parties and embarrassing childhood photos. Next to a picture of Harry holding a giant inflatable banana, the magnets spelling out ‘suck a dick,’ there’s the photo Gemma took of Harry and Eli together on New Year’s Eve, grinning at each other, waiting for their midnight kiss. They look like they’re in love. Eli had added it to the fridge collection right away after it was developed, holding it up with the words ‘I ♥ you.’

Harry never tried to erase Eli from his life. He had never wanted that. The pictures and the tattered copy of _Dandelion Wine_ on the bookshelf and that fucking Terry Redlin print aren’t painful reminders of the love he lost, they’re memories. Harry would never want to give them up, especially since they’re all he has now. He cherishes them, just as all joyful memories should be cherished.

Louis’ silent examination of the house is interrupted when Calliope sashays into the kitchen, no doubt lured in by the smell of melting butter.

“Oh, this must be Calliope,” Louis says. “We didn’t get a chance to meet last night.” He slithers out of his chair and onto the floor, waggling his fingers at the cat to get her to come over. She obliges, trotting over and nuzzling her face into his outstretched hand after giving it a cautionary sniff.

“Yup, that’s Cal,” Harry says, turning back to the hob to mix the ingredients for the hollandaise sauce into the melted butter. “Don’t let her fool you with the cuddly act, she’s a nightmare.”

“Aw, you are not. Don’t listen to him,” Louis coos, picking Calliope up around her middle and sitting her back on the chair with him. “You’re just a sweet thing,” he says as he scratches around her ears.

She immediately starts purring and kneading her paws into Louis’ tummy. Harry sighs. “Flattery will get you everywhere it seems.”

“I’m the cat whisperer, Harry. Don’t be jealous. You’re already doing something impressive with a whisk over there.”

Harry tries not to be hopelessly endeared by Louis cuddling with his cat at his kitchen table but fails immensely. As he finishes the eggs benedict, he gets Louis to fill Calliope’s bowl with kibble, then all three of them are tucking into their respective meals together. The whole thing is terribly domestic.

“Oh my god,” Louis moans, halfway through his first English muffin. “This is amazing, Haz. Like everything else you make. Did they give you a culinary degree at that bakery?”

Harry blushes at the compliment. “Nah, ’ve just always liked cooking,” he mumbles. “I got this recipe from my dad. He made eggs benedict every Saturday while I was growing up. It’s just how I like my eggs in the morning.”

Louis smiles at him, a bit of egg yolk dribbling on his bottom lip. “It’s how I’ve always liked mine too.”

Harry smiles back wryly. “Is that a ploy to get me to make you eggs benedict every morning?” he asks.

“I don’t know, is it working?”

“Mmm, probably not.”

“Shucks,” Louis shrugs. He doesn’t seem too bothered as shovels more egg and muffin into his mouth.

After their plates have been practically licked clean, Louis insists that he wash the dishes since Harry was the one who cooked. He makes a right mess of it too, splashing sudsy water down the front of the cabinet doors and making puddles on the countertop. When he notices, Harry can only sigh, coming up behind Louis and wrapping his arms around him to fold a tea towel over the edge of the sink so Louis doesn’t get soaked too. Then he settles in next to him with another towel to dry. They work in tandem quietly, Harry zoning out as he watches the rivulets of rain race down the windowpane until Louis hands him another saucepan.

For having woken up with such a wicked hangover, Harry thinks things have turned out better than expected as he and Louis move to the living room, wrapping themselves in blankets and spreading out on the couch. With a film playing, a full belly, and Louis resting on his shoulder, Harry is more than ready to just go back to sleep.

“Your hair’s still wet,” Louis comments, brushing it over onto Harry’s other shoulder so it’s not wet against his face.

“Well your jumper’s still all wet after you went swimming in the dishes,” Harry grumbles, tugging at Louis’ soggy sleeve.

Louis chuckles and goes back to watching the film. Harry tries his best to do the same but can’t quite seem to follow the dialogue through the drowsiness fogging his brain. Right as he’s considering just resting his eyes for a minute, Louis speaks up again.

“Could I braid it?”

“Huh?”

“Your hair, can I braid it?” Louis repeats. “Sorry, is that a weird thing to ask?”

“No, no, I just wasn’t expecting it,” Harry says, shaking the drowsiness out of his head. “You can if you want to?”

“I’ve got a herd of sisters, it’s usually how movie nights go for me,” Louis says, shrugging out of his blanket and patting at the space between his legs. Harry slides off the couch and dutifully positions himself on the floor, tilting his head back into Louis’ hands.

Harry had attempted to braid his hair himself a few times since it had grown out to his shoulders, but he'd never been too successful. He couldn’t seem to do it by feel, his clumsy fingers always grabbing the wrong strands and his hair ending up in knots. Louis’ fingers are much more clever though. He gently combs them through Harry’s hair, smoothing out the tangled curls and brushing them back from Harry’s forehead.

“Your hair’s so long,” Louis murmurs.

Harry only hums in response, a shiver dancing up his spine as he eases into the feeling of having his hair played with. It’s so, so lovely.

Louis gathers all of the hair up at the nape of Harry’s neck before taking a thick section from the top and beginning to work it into a French braid. Each swipe of Louis’ thumb is gentle as he takes a new section of hair from the side, never twisting it into the braid too hard or pulling against Harry’s scalp. Harry’s eyes are drooping by the time Louis is winding the end strands into the braid, fingers fluttering against the back of his neck. Louis taps Harry’s shoulder and makes grabby fingers at the hair tie waiting on Harry’s wrist. He passes it back to him and Louis ties off the braid.

“It’s very pretty, Harry,” Louis says quietly, tucking a few straying pieces back into the center. Harry’s too close to sleep to be certain, but he thinks he feels a kiss pressed to the top of his head.

Harry reaches a hand back to run his fingers over the thick braid. It feels nice. Louis has obviously had a lot of practice. He tips his head back into Louis’ lap and smiles up at him dopily. “Thank you, Lou. I love it.”

“Anytime,” Louis replies, meeting Harry’s gaze warmly.

Sitting up then, Harry leans over to snag a pillow off the loveseat and arranges it against Louis’ thigh. He crawls back onto the sofa, curling up under his blanket with his head in Louis’ lap. As he’s drifting off he folds a hand under Louis’ leg, wrapping his fingers around his knee, just to hold on to a bit of him while he sleeps. In turn, Louis rests his arm at the dip of Harry’s waist, feeling the steady rise and fall of each long, sleepy breath where he pets at Harry’s side.

They stay like that, folded into each other like the plaits of a braid, while the rain continues to patter against the window and the film plays on.


	6. Chapter Six

The days of summer begin to blur together, measured only in the number of sunshine freckles that appear on Louis and Harry’s faces, smattered across their noses and cheeks. The days grow warmer and they spend more and more time outside, basking in the sun and each other.

Afternoons after Harry’s shifts at the bakery are usually spent laying out in Harry’s backyard on rickety trifold beach chairs, fingers tucked in the neon rubber tubing, a bottle of ready-made margaritas passed back and forth between them. Phones are plugged in to Harry’s portable speakers, playing The Beach Boys for proper ambiance, or The Antlers for napping in the sunshine, or Louis’ favorite indie pop radio station for margarita buzzes and singing along with the words all wrong. Shirts are abandoned but headbands and sunglasses are never too far out of reach. Louis’ tawny skin turns effortlessly golden though Harry is less fortunate, donning a full-body burn after a single day without sunscreen. He spends half a week after that slathered in aloe vera and in as few clothes as possible, the chafe of them against his irritated skin agonizing. The whole affair has Louis quickly desensitized to the sight of a mostly-naked Harry loping around in only his boxer briefs, his lithe, lobster-red body on full display. The burn eventually turns into a nice bronze, but not before peeling for a solid week, during which Louis takes great amusement in peeling the large sheets of flaking skin off Harry’s back and shins. He also takes responsibility for coating Harry in sunscreen every day they spend in the sun after that.

They can accomplish so much nothing in a single day. They watch Calliope explore the back garden, they talk for hours about nothing at all, and Louis groans endlessly through Harry’s infinite supply of rotten jokes and long-winded anecdotes. Louis always lets him tell them though, nodding encouragingly through drawn-out punch lines, ready to tease when they’re done, but never too impatient to cut Harry off. They eat frozen grapes, they learn the dances to Grease songs together, Harry paints their nails on more than one occasion, and they turn almost anything into a competition. They race to be the first one to the bathroom when the margarita mix catches up with them, they fight over who has the most embarrassing stories on any given topic, they have a contest to see who can eat the most licorice sticks (which ends badly for both of their stomachs), and Harry also gets involved in one ill-advised push-up challenge. Another incident concerning unwrapping chocolate coins ends with Louis on top of Harry and both of them on the ground after the beach chair buckles beneath them, laughing until they’re breathless.

On rainy days they curl up in bed in pajama pants and watch bad countdown segments and quiz shows on telly, filling themselves up with buttered egg noodles and s’mores made in the microwave. They put on wellies and make their way to the cheap movie theater to see films that are months old, eating peanut butter chocolates and over-buttered popcorn mixed together. They go to the art museum, where Harry pays the admission fees for them both and talks at length about Edward Hopper and Basquiat. Sometimes they prepare for Louis’ classes for the upcoming semester, sprawled out on the floor reading from the countless Samuel French books Louis has stacked in colorful piles around his flat, trading scripts at the end of each play. Louis scribbles down lesson ideas in his notebook and in the margins of the pages while Harry reads amusing passages out loud in exaggerated character voices or doodles on the tattered paper covers.

Oftentimes – when the sun is going down or Harry’s backyard gets too boring – they walk over to the park by the bakery with the football Louis has taken to keeping at Harry’s house. Harry manages to worm his way out of playing most of the time, begging off to feed the ducks or claiming to be too exhausted and just sitting by and watching Louis dribble the ball by himself, or play with other park-goers he convinces to join him. Louis is suspicious the first few times but he lets the nonparticipation slide nonetheless. When he finally does force him to play though, Louis is stunned by Harry’s less than stellar skills.

“Harry, how could you keep this from me?” he laments, taking the ball away from Harry for his own safety after a particularly wild attempt at passing. “This is tragic.”

Harry casts his eyes down at his pigeon toes. “I told you I didn’t want to play.”

Sometimes Louis forgets he can make Harry – tall, twirling, vibrant Harry – feel small.

“No, no!” he says, advancing toward him and patting Harry on the shoulder reassuringly. “I didn’t mean it like that, I mean I can help! I was on my uni team for four years. Starting defender and everything,” he adds with a wink.

“That’s very impressive Lou, but honestly, I’m beyond help. I’ve been told I’m particularly awful.”

Louis scoffs. “And I don’t believe that.”

So Harry is begrudgingly enrolled in Louis’ one-man football intensive, complete with evening training sessions and lessons that mainly involve watching the remaining World Cup matches. Privately, Harry thinks the whole coaching thing might’ve really just been Louis’ excuse to watch the games. He himself had stopped tuning in after England crashed and burned in the group stage, his concern for football not extending much past patriotism. And no matter how much Louis insists that they’re “a learning opportunity,” watching the matches with Louis usually involves Harry falling asleep on the couch while Louis mutters an ongoing commentary to himself.

One night he’s woken up from a doze when Louis starts shouting at the telly.

“No _way_ is it _five_ nil!” he exclaims as he leaps up off the couch, upending Harry’s head from where it had been resting on his thigh.

Startled, Harry lifts his neck up to see the score, wiping some drool off his cheek and squinting at the screen. He thinks it might be the semi-finals by now, and it looks like Brazil and Germany are playing. Brazil appears to be losing rather badly. Louis has to take a lap around the house to calm down.

“Fuck…” he breathes once he deposits himself on the couch again, picking up Harry’s head and placing it back in his lap.

“Whassat?” Harry mumbles.

“I bet Niall fifty quid on this match. He’s got Germany winning the Cup, that fucker,” Louis replies. “Go back to sleep, Harry. You don’t need to watch this unless you want to learn how not to play football.”

Harry chuckles and rolls over, tucking his face into Louis' side.

He’s not sure how much he actually improves during his training sessions, though Louis is nothing if not supportive through the whole process. Once his skills have been deemed “mediocre but verging on acceptable,” Louis even sets up a match with all of their friends. They don’t have two squads worth of friends between the two of them, but Harry isn’t willing to embarrass himself more publicly than necessary. Niall shows up, and Harry even wrangles Ed into playing. Louis recruits Stan and Oli and eventually his fellow faculty member Eleanor, who happens to go jogging through the park at the time of their game. They divide up, Harry, Niall, Ed, and Oli against Louis, Stan, and Eleanor.

It goes a lot worse than Harry might've expected. None of the other players are much better than him, apart from Louis, of course, who runs circles around the lot of them. And since there aren't enough of them for five-a-sides, everyone has to play the field. Whenever someone gets close enough to a goal (marked off by water bottles and a pile of hoodies), someone else has to quickly dive into the box to play keeper. It’s a high-scoring game, to say the least. They don’t have a ref either, so it’s basically a free-for-all until someone does something particularly illicit.

It’s after Eleanor gets fouled on a blatant handball that Harry is forced to take a penalty kick. Up until then he had spent most of the game galumphing around the field, pirouetting, unsuccessfully chasing after the ball, or having it immediately stolen out from under his feet. Now, facing off against Stan, who stares him down and quite successfully makes himself look bigger in the goal, Harry feels very out of his element. He tries to remember all of Louis’ lessons as best as he can, takes a deep breath, fakes right, and shoots left. Stan dives to the right, and before the ball has even disappeared into the ditch past the goal markers Harry is tearing down the field. It’s maybe the proudest moment of his life.

“That was for you! That was for you!” he shouts, pointing at Niall and taking a running leap into his arms. Niall cackles maniacally in his ear, squeezing him tight, and then the world is suddenly sideways as Louis latches on to Harry’s waist and knocks them all to the ground in a celebratory tackle. Apparently he isn’t very concerned with the fact that Harry is actually on the opposing team.

Niall extracts himself from the skirmish somehow and then it’s just Louis screaming in Harry’s ear, “That was so good!” and “I’m so proud of you!” as he hugs him the grass. Harry thinks they might be making a scene, what with Louis straddling him in the middle of the park, but he really couldn’t care less.

When the score is at 7-5 and Harry’s team – penalty or not – is losing, Louis calls a time out when he spots a couple making their way toward the makeshift pitch.

“The clock doesn’t stop in regulation football!” Stan jeers after Louis’ retreating figure.

Louis flips him the bird behind his back. Harry works on pulling his sweaty hair into a bun and trots over to retrieve his water bottle, aiming to both rehydrate and eavesdrop on Louis and the new arrivals.

“Zayn!” Louis cries delightedly when he reaches the pair, wrapping them up in an undoubtedly sweaty and grass-stained embrace. He pulls away and holds them out at arm’s length. “I thought you said you couldn’t make it!”

Zayn shrugs and gives Louis a catlike smile. “The thing got done early. Figured we could stop by and finally meet this boy of yours.”

Harry flushes and looks away.

“Not _my boy_ , Zayn,” Louis corrects, “But I would be happy to oblige. Harry!” he calls, beckoning him over. Harry ambles across the field and Louis pulls him in by the scruff of his shirt, throwing an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “Zayn, this is Harry Styles, footballer extraordinaire. Harry, Zayn Malik and Perrie Edwards,” Louis introduces.

“Nice to meet you both, I’ve heard so much,” Harry says, shaking their hands. “Sorry ‘m all sweaty.”

“That’s okay, love. This arsehole’s already covered us in his sweat,” Perrie says, swatting at Louis’ arm.

Louis lets out one indignant squawk, then immediately launches into an extremely detailed report of Harry’s penalty shot that has Harry blushing all over again.

When the conversation turns into a discussion of the art show Perrie and Zayn have apparently just come from, Harry has a chance to just watch the three of them interact, and the close friendship between them is obvious. Louis’ cheek dimples as they talk, just like it had when he spoke about Zayn weeks ago, and his eyes crinkle as he looks back and forth between the two of them. Perrie grabs at Louis’ arm as she speaks, and Zayn wraps the arm that isn’t around Perrie’s waist around Louis, squishing their faces close. Zayn has yet to let go of Perrie too, and before he can even ask, Harry’s guess is confirmed, his eyes gravitating toward their soulmate tattoos: a vine of spade-shaped leaves trailing up Zayn’s arm to match the vine of Black-Eyed Susans on Perrie’s. They’re beautiful tattoos, and they’re a beautiful couple. Harry’s stomach only twinges a little.

After the game, whatever line had previously separated “Harry’s friends” from “Louis’ friends” becomes increasingly indistinct. It might start when Harry eats a candy thong off Zayn’s crotch, or when Niall declares he’s in love with Zayn, or when all of them stumble home from the shitty local club one night after too many cosmopolitans. They all blend together without much thought or effort, as seamless as how Harry and Louis came to know each other, like it had never been any different at all.

The only missing piece is Liam, Harry thinks, and that issue is quickly resolved when he ends up on Harry’s couch the day before their annual summer fishing trip. Harry and Louis invite everyone over, they all get spectacularly smashed, and thus the friend consolidation is completed. Harry is almost certain Zayn and Liam kiss sometime over the course of the night with Perrie cackling on the sideline, and Harry himself spends most of the evening half in Stan’s lap and half in Louis’. Ed brings Taylor to introduce to everyone and together they regale the crowd with their soulmate story, explaining Ed’s ketchup logo tattoo and how Taylor was irate to receive a matching mustard logo when she doesn’t even like mustard. It’s impossible not to see their connection though, especially when Niall breaks out his guitar and Taylor and Ed harmonize so perfectly in their rendition of "Leaving On a Jet Plane". After the song, Taylor and Eleanor start shit talking about a mutual acquaintance and everything just seems right in the world.

Harry, a few whiskey shots deep, can’t help but think he and Louis deserve some kind of award for bringing all of these friendships together. Without them, would Liam and Zayn be gazing at each other lovingly talking about Batman? Would Ed be composing a ballad with Louis over at the piano? Would Niall be rating Nandos locations with Oli and Stan? No, they wouldn’t. Harry and Louis should get a medal at the very least. Just by being with each other, they’ve brought so much joy to others.

Harry may be getting a little too maudlin watching everyone laugh and converse around him, and he probably definitely shouldn’t have taken that last shot. But in that moment, it seems so inarguable that he and Louis have had some kind of ripple effect, that this is all so much bigger than them. That they were always supposed to find one another, and no matter what universe they were in it would always end up like this; that Harry would never want to be without Louis. And right then, Harry decides just that. He watches Louis throw his head back and laugh, his delicate fingers dancing up the piano keys, and he’s beautiful. Harry decides he would very much like to hold Louis forever. He tells Liam as much, rolling away from his lonely place on the couch and crawling over to inform him that he and Louis cannot be parted and he’s officially inviting Louis on the fishing trip.

When everyone has finally gone home and Liam is left passed out on the couch, one shoe missing, Louis and Harry stumble around the house together trying to clean up the wreckage of party supplies left behind. They pick up all of the dirty plastic cups and inexplicably stack them together on the table instead of throwing them away, because it seems like the right thing to do in their addled state. Louis dumps out flat drinks, cling-wraps the leftover food and puts it in the fridge. Harry manages to put his living back into some semblance of order and halfheartedly wipes down a few surfaces before Louis convinces him to just give up and leave it for the morning, dragging them both into Harry’s room and into bed. They strip down to their pants and clumsily collapse into the covers, practically asleep as soon as their heads touch their pillows.

Harry is moments from being deeply unconscious when he remembers the fishing trip. He jerks awake, opening his eyes wide in the darkness to try and make out if Louis is already asleep next to him.

“Louuuuu,” he whispers, reaching out and holding Louis’ face in both of his palms. “Louuuu…”

“Whaaaaat,” Louis moans. He furrows his eyebrows but doesn’t open his eyes.

“Come fishing with me and Li tomorrow.”

“Fine. I need to sleep then,” Louis says, picking up one of Harry’s hands by the thumb and placing it back on Harry’s side of the bed. Harry giggles, retracts his other hand from Louis’ cheek, rolls himself into a duvet burrito, and promptly passes out.

> <

The drive to the ocean the next day, which Harry remembers to be pleasant and picturesque, is a lot less so when nursing a hangover, much to Harry, Louis, and Liam’s chagrin. In hindsight, throwing a party the night before a two-hour drive at the crack of dawn had not been one of their most intelligent ideas; Harry would’ve been happy to forgo the trip altogether to stay in bed. Instead, he had been unceremoniously awoken after too few hours of sleep by one Liam Payne jumping up and down on his bed, hollering about rising and shining. Before the sun had even risen, no less. Despite the pillows Louis threw at Liam’s head and how much groaning and grumbling it took them, Harry and Louis had eventually gotten up to help load the car. While Harry dug out his tackle box and arranged the fishing rods in the back of the car, Louis packed their cooler with drinks, sandwiches, and a netted bag of clementines, Liam nattering on behind them both about hats and jackets and whether they had the right map to get there (“Yes, Liam. It’s all up here,” Harry said, knocking against his temple.)

Since it’s Liam’s old Land Rover they’re taking and since he seemed to be the least miserable out of the three of them, Liam is the one elected to drive. Harry claims the passenger seat for navigation purposes and Louis spreads himself out on the backseat, fully intending to nap the drive away. They’re only on the road for a whole half hour before Harry’s hangover and the motion of the car has him whacking at Liam's arm to pull over and he’s losing his breakfast cereal on the side of the motorway. Because Liam is a terrible sympathy puker, Louis is the one who's roused from his slumber and has to clamber out of the car to help. He runs his fingers through Harry’s hair, holding it away from his face, and pets his back sympathetically.

“Man, you sure are making a habit out of this,” Louis says conversationally. “First in the shower, now this. Do you ever barf in a toilet?”

Harry wallops him in the stomach for that remark once he’s finished dry heaving. The rest of the trip goes much smoother from then on.

It is a beautiful drive, and Harry convinces Louis to stay awake to watch the countryside pass by with him – “I do love a good tree,” Louis says. Harry and Liam try to keep him entertained with stories from their childhood, and Louis never holds himself back from taking the absolute piss out of Liam at any instance, which leaves Liam talking through gritted teeth and white-knuckling the steering wheel, probably to keep himself from throttling Louis.

In a loving sort of way, though. Harry could have predicted Louis and Niall getting on well but Harry could never have anticipated whatever it is that Louis and Liam have. When Louis is not mocking him for his “one-hundred percent not gay love for Colonel Sanders” and the terribly misspelled tweets he reads from Liam’s Twitter account, he’s constantly knocking off Liam’s snapback from the backseat, or making a racket with the water bottle in the console until Liam smacks his hand away, or wriggling his toes into Liam’s seat to prod them at his bum. Somehow Liam finds it all simultaneously enraging and endearing though, even as his attempts to retaliate have little to no effect on Louis. That is until Liam starts pestering Harry instead, tugging at his headscarf and tickling his sides until Harry is whining for him to stop. Then Louis is quick to halt all annoyances.

“You’ve just got to find a man’s weakness, that’s all there is to it,” Liam announces smugly once he has Louis stewing in the backseat.

Louis huffs and crosses his arms. “That’s a fair comment, Liam, but in the future I’d rather you fuck off.”

Somehow they manage to make it to the coast both alive and with friendships still intact. The bantering and fighting has Harry tense, his innate need to avoid conflict and provide damage control making his heart race every time Liam growls or Louis makes another flippant remark. But instead of intervening he decides to let them go at it; it’s obviously a Liam and Louis thing. For his own sake, he mostly tries to just tune them out. Nevertheless, by the time Liam is reversing into a parking spot at the beach, Harry is relieved to finally escape the confines of the car.

They gather their gear and provisions from the back and with their arms full, hobble all the way down to the end of the pier. It’s still early in the morning, the fog just barely lifting from the beach, and the shore and pier are deserted except for one grizzled local fisherman putting out his crab traps. There’s a chill in the air and cool mist blowing off the ocean waves. Harry and Louis are forced to pull on their jackets and Liam haughtily reminds them that they have him to thank for thinking ahead and making them bring jackets along. They purchase bait from the small shoreline shop and prepare their rods, adjusting the sinkers and tying on new fishhooks. When they all cast out their lines, Harry and Louis are huddled together on a bench and Liam is perched on the edge of the pier.

“Bollocks,” Louis mutters, his line not making it more than a few meters away from the supporting pillar below them. He doggedly reels it back in to try again.

“I’m just a natural really, aren’t I?” Liam says, his cast arcing out far and away from the shoreline, landing in the water with a confident _plop_. “I mean I don’t mess about, that’s the main thing.”

Harry and Louis don’t pay him any attention, too busy untangling their own lines after Harry’s cast goes awry and ends up wrapped around Louis’.

Liam watches on, shaking his head, but doesn’t make any effort to help. “Hopeless, the both of you.”

Louis is the first to call it quits. The sun is much higher in the sky by then, sunlight beating down onto the pier, and jackets have been tossed aside and replaced with Harry’s wide-brimmed fedora and Liam’s ugly fishing-themed bucket hat. The hat says, “I’ve been fishin’ for so long I’m a masterbaiter” on the front, and Liam wears it every single year because he thinks it makes him a better fisherman. They have yet to catch anything though, apart from the one fading starfish Harry had risked his life to retrieve off the side of the wooden support beam, dangling his whole gangly body off the edge of the pier with only Louis holding him in place by the ankles.

Harry probably should have considered inviting Louis on the trip more carefully. For the most part, fishing involves three main things: sitting, waiting, and silence, which also happen to be three of Louis’ _least_ favorite things. It had only taken about an hour and a half of it for Louis to reach his breaking point. He had been absolutely squirming by then, constantly shifting around on the bench and fidgeting with his shirt until he apparently couldn’t take it anymore. Then he’d exploded into action, jumping off the bench and handing his pole off to Harry like it was a baton and he’d just finished a marathon.

“What was _that_ all about?” Liam had asked bewilderedly, frowning after Louis as he marched away down the pier. Harry only shrugged.

Harry can see Louis down at the beach now, running his toes through the sand, trying to see if he can overturn any nice rocks. The day had finally warmed up enough for Louis to shed his shirt, and his jean shorts were rolled up to his thighs so he could wade through the shallow water. Every once in awhile he bends over to pick up a rock, which he examines carefully before throwing it out into the surf. Harry watches and rates each toss, thinking to himself that Louis’ rock throwing is a lot better than his casting.

“You two are sort of weird,” Liam remarks casually after awhile, finally drawing Harry’s gaze away from Louis.

That seemed to be the thing people did around Harry now, watch him and Louis together and then report their thoughts and observations to Harry once Louis disappeared. As much as Harry does enjoy talking about himself, he’s not too sure why people care so much, or why they think they should have an opinion at all. Or why they feel like they always need to offer Harry their support.

“How’s that?” Harry asks.

“Like, you’ve got the whole one-sided soulmate thing, which obviously complicates everything a bit, and you say you’re just friends, but you’re just so close, you know? You’ve spent your whole summer with him, you sleep in the same bed, you can’t take your eyes off each other,” Liam says, listing off each point on a finger. “It almost reminds me of you and Eli.”

That Harry hasn’t heard before. “ _Really,_ ” he says, taken aback.

“I mean, yeah. You two were always so wrapped up in one another, you definitely had the stereotypical soulmate thing going for you. You and Louis are like that too, but in a different way. You like…function as one unit. You’re just HarryandLouis,” Liam says. “I’ve only been here for a few days and I can see it. Everyone else does too. I asked.”

Harry sighs sulkily. “Is that all anyone does anymore, gossip about me and Louis?”

“Apparently, mate. Everyone’s just curious about what’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on!” Harry exclaims, voice jumping up an octave. “We’re just friends! I have lots of friends!”

“Except you love him,” Liam counters. So simply, as if the words don't have any weight at all.

They weigh Harry down like an anchor. His heart might as well be moored in the depths of the water beneath them, brought down by his own guilty conscience.

“Not like that though,” he replies weakly. “You _know_ it doesn’t work like that, Liam.”

Liam fiddles with his fishing reel. “I know,” he concedes. “I know.”

As they sit there quietly, the smell of rotting seaweed and the sound of the water slurping at the bottom of the pier suddenly seem too potent, too loud for Harry to ignore. Like his senses have gone into overdrive to make up for the unsettling feeling clawing at his gut. _Love Louis?_ It had always seemed like such an abstract concept before, one that Harry simply did not approach in fear of the emptiness he would find inside himself. But Liam made it sound like a simplicity.

“I wish it did, though,” Liam adds after a moment. “Work that way, I mean.”

And isn't that the crux of it all?

Harry sighs. “Me too,” he says. His eyes flit back to the beach. Louis has wandered much farther down the shoreline now, only a small figure from Harry’s distance but still standing out against the blue of the water. “More than anything I just wish it was different for Louis,” Harry continues, gesturing toward him vaguely. “That he wasn’t matched with me. I don’t have anything to give him. Or not what he _should_ get, at least.”

Liam turns to face him. “Harry,” he says sternly. “You have _so_ much to give. Please don’t ever think like that. You’re thoughtful, and you’re kind, and you have love to give, no matter what you think. You’re like…like a lighthouse! Just brightening up everyone’s way. You look at people, and you give them yourself and your love no matter who they are. Without even hesitating. Matching is really beside the point, mate. Everyone loves you back because you’re just so genuinely Harry. It’s an amazing thing.” Liam stops then, flushing, like his gushing words have finally caught up to his brain. “So don’t go around saying things like that,” he blusters. “Soulmate or not, you’ve got a lot to give. And I’ll give Louis a smack if he thinks any of it isn’t good enough.”

Harry can feel his cheeks burning but he ignores it, giving Liam a pointed look instead. “One-hundred percent not gay, Liam, really?”

“Oh, shut up,” Liam huffs. He attempts to look cross while obviously fighting off a smile.

Harry’s grin is blinding. “Oh, I love you too, Li!” he cries, leaping up from the bench and throwing his arms around Liam. “That was a beautiful speech. I’m very flattered.” He smacks a wet kiss against Liam’s scruffy cheek.

“Ugh,” Liam whines, wiping off Harry’s slobber with the back of his hand. “Love you too, you tosser. Now get off me and go man your fishing poles. You’re gonna get a bite and then they’ll get dragged off into the ocean, lost forever.”

Harry groans. “That was _one time,_ Liam," he argues, draping himself back down across the bench with flourish and continuing to disregard his fishing poles. "And honestly, you need to let it go."

“Yeah, just like you let my _one_ _hundred pound_ fishing rod go –”

“And it’s not bloody likely to happen again today anyway,” Harry continues, talking over him. “We are not having any luck at all. I might as well go toss rocks with Louis. Maybe I’ll manage to hit a fish with one.”

Liam sighs, put-upon. “Well, go on then,” he says, flapping a hand at Harry dismissively. “Go and canoodle.”

Harry frowns up at the sky. “We do not _canoodle_ ,” he says. “There is no _canoodling_.”

“Hmm, if you say so.”

“Just for that, I think I will go,” Harry sniffs. “Even with two poles I haven’t been able to catch anything, so I’m feeling like a swim would be more a lot more worthwhile.”

Harry sits up and reels in both of the lines, fastening each of the sharp hooks into an eyelet. He lays them down next to Liam and gathers up his scattered belongings, leaving Liam with his tuna sandwich and a couple of clementines so he can bring the cooler with him to the beach.

“Come join us when you decide this is pointless!” Harry calls over his shoulder as he walks away.

“Not pointless. I can _feel_ the fish, Harry. They’re waiting, I know it.”

“Maybe try losing the hat!”

“Never!”

Louis has returned much closer to the pier by the time Harry reaches the beach. He’s standing in thigh-deep water with his back to Harry, watching the waves crest in the distance, hands on his hips. He probably didn’t see Harry come down to the shoreline at all. Harry smiles devilishly to himself; he hopes Louis is up for a swim too. He dumps everything on the sand as he toes off his shoes and sets his fedora down, then he’s galloping down the beach, pulling his shirt over his head and throwing it behind him, hopefully in the direction of the cooler. The water slows him down exponentially but Harry perseveres, slogging along noisily. Somehow Louis remains completely oblivious until the last second. When he turns around, eyes widening in surprise when he sees Harry barreling toward him, Harry has only a moment to revel in his shocked face before he’s wrapping his arms around Louis’ torso and dunking them both underwater.

The water is chilly but refreshing, and at the very least it swiftly remedies Harry’s tragically matted hat-hair. Underwater he immediately lets go of Louis’ squirming form, swimming a few strokes away in case Louis is quick to retaliate. Harry breaks the surface again, laughing, a curtain of wet hair in front of his eyes. Louis, on the other hand, is already above water, bracing himself on his knees as he coughs uncontrollably. Harry sobers instantly at the sound, pushing his hair out of his face and stumbling forward to grip at Louis’ shoulder.

“Holy shit, Lou, are you okay?”

“Fine, fine,” Louis chokes out between coughs. “Some dickhead just –” _cough_ “– tackled me into the –” _cough_ “– bloody ocean.”

“I’m so sorry, oh my god. I could’ve killed you!”

Louis’ coughs subside into laughter. “I might make it yet,” he says, clutching at his chest. “Do you happen to know mouth-to-mouth?”

Harry laughs nervously, not quite reassured. For a moment, his eyes wander down to Louis’ lips. Fleetingly, he wonders what it would be like, to touch his lips to Louis’. He wonders if Louis would smile into a kiss, how his nose would feel pressed against Harry’s. He dismisses the thought as quickly as it comes.

They romp through the water for a while longer once Louis has recovered, jumping on each other’s backs and play fighting until their limbs are too heavy to lift. Then they spread their arms wide and float around on their backs, the salt water buoying them, knuckles brushing occasionally as they ride the gentle waves, eyes closed against the blinding sun. With his ears submerged, the entire world is muffled to Harry. It’s tranquil, and enveloping, and he feels limitless, unburdened from his own thoughts and worries. There’s only the steady whooshing sound of the ocean around him and the warmth of the sunlight on his belly. Harry wishes he could stay in that moment endlessly, in the quietude of a perfect summer day at the ocean. He’s shaken out of it soon after by Louis smacking him on the stomach, reminding him he needs to put on sunscreen.

After Harry has been sufficiently slathered in SPF 60, they go back to wandering down the shoreline, feet dipped in the thin lapping waves to keep their toes cool and away from the burning sand. They comb the beach for treasures, running their fingers across the smooth, bruise-purple insides of the shells they pick up, filling up their pockets with shards of cockleshells and whelks. Louis even finds a little sand dollar embedded in the sand and gasps delightedly at the perfect star formed on its front.

“That is amazing,” he breathes, awed. He looks up at Harry, eyes twinkling excitedly. “I’ve never had a sand dollar before. What should we spend it on?”

Harry has maybe never been so fond of someone in his life.

When they return back to their belongings they tuck into the remaining sandwiches – salami and cheddar for Louis, peanut butter and butter for Harry – and peel clementine after clementine, stickying their fingers and lips with juice. Harry already feels grimy enough with the thin layer of salt clinging to his entire body and his hair drying into stiffened, salty curls, so instead of rinsing off his hands in the water like Louis, he just spreads himself out across the two oversized beach towels they’ve laid out in the sand. Louis doesn’t seem to mind that’s he’s taking up his towel, simply arranging himself in the space at Harry’s side when he returns and pillowing his head on Harry’s bicep. They lay there quietly as the day settles around them.

Harry listens to the gulls calling above him, and the pair of kids chattering down by the shore where they’re building a sandcastle, and his mind wanders back to what Liam had said earlier. He _does_ love Louis, he thinks, with this kind of unflinching, uncompromising affection he’s not quite sure what to do with. It sort of engulfed him and his summer; he and Louis really haven't spent a whole lot of time apart, like Liam said. Harry worked and spent time with his other friends, yes, but Louis was just this…bright spot, outshining everything else. Harry doesn’t know what he would’ve done all summer if he hadn’t met Louis, probably would’ve spent it bored and lonely, pretending he wasn’t feeling either of those things. He’s done more in the last month or so than he had for the year and a half before, and Harry is thankful. Maybe he had been a little sad, a little too comfortable hiding himself away, telling himself he was happier than he actually was. It seems like all he really needed was a pull, a bright spot like Louis to draw him out, back into a fuller life like he'd once had. He’s so grateful, and so consumed with tenderness for this boy breathing softly next to him, and right then, Harry needs Louis to know that. To know how much he means, how important he was and _is_ to Harry.

“Hey, Lou?” he murmurs quietly, almost fearfully. Not because he’s afraid of what to say, but because he’s afraid to break this quiet bubble they’ve found for themselves. The whole day has seemed removed from reality, separated from their usual routine.

Harry thinks Louis might actually be asleep until he hums in response a moment later. “What’s up, Haz?”

“Can I tell you something?”

Louis turns his head to face him. “’Course.”

Harry can’t see Louis’ eyes behind his wayfarers but he imagines that they’d be open and reassuring. “I just wanted to thank you for this whole summer, and for sticking with me,” he begins. “I don’t…I don’t think I was in as good of a place as I thought I was, and you’ve helped me a lot. Without even realizing it. No matter what I’ve said before, I’m so glad to have you…and lucky. I’m lucky to have you,” Harry pauses, taking in a deep breath and exhaling slowly. He feels like he has his ears submerged in the ocean again, enveloped in some kind of timeless, weightless moment. “You’re my best friend, you know that?”

Their faces are close, but a quick glance to Louis’ lips finds them parted in a reverent sort of wonder. Louis swallows thickly and whispers, “You’re mine too, Harry.” Then, angling his head, he presses the tiniest and gentlest of kisses to Harry’s shoulder, just above the ship. In return, Harry wraps his arm around Louis’ chest and holds him closer.

Their peace is interrupted some time later when Liam comes to stand over them, effectively blocking their sun.

“Well this certainly looks a lot like canoodling to me,” he quips, sounding far too smug for Harry’s liking.

Louis reaches out a hand to grab a forgotten clementine peel, which he lobs at Liam’s face without looking and hits him square in the forehead. “Someone sounds jealous. You can join us if you’d like, Liam,” he sniffs. “You look like you could use a good cuddle.”

“No, thanks. We’ve got to go, you salty monkeys. We still have to drive all the way back,” Liam says, eyeing their still-wet shorts and sandy legs. “You two are going to be absolutely miserable, stuck in the car for hours covered in all that ocean gunk,” he snickers.

Harry and Louis exchange a look. They tackle Liam into the water too, for good measure.

> <

Without deliberately deciding on it, Harry and Louis stop correcting people about not being soulmates – if they ever even corrected them at all. To any outside observer it looks like they have the tattoos, and the way they act around each other doesn’t do much to convince anyone that they’re not matched together. They accept the small smiles from old ladies and cashiers at the stores when Louis rests his chin on Harry’s shoulder in the checkout line, and the knowing nods from other couples they see when they walk through the park. Without the whole story it’s hard to explain their situation, so they just don’t change the story people believe. They themselves know the truth, and that’s all that really matters.

Harry and Louis being soulmates is a concept familiar enough for Louis’ younger siblings to understand too. Harry has taken to spending a lot of time with them, and the rest of Louis’ family as well. There’s always a plate set out for Harry when Louis goes to his parents’ house, and he spends many a afternoon in the Tomlinsons’ living room, laying on his belly to carefully paint Daisy and Phoebe’s nails and play trucks with Ernie and Dori, sitting on the couch with Lottie at his feet to practice his braiding skills, determined to learn how to do it himself so he can braid his own hair before he goes to the bakery in the mornings.

The Tomlinson house is full of life and motion in a way Harry’s childhood home never was. There’s always a flurry activity happening somewhere, whether it’s the babies caterwauling, or Daisy and Phoebe fighting over Legos, or Lottie and Fizzy bursting in and out of the house with just a whip of long hair and the flash of a dress. And there’s Louis too, whose voice seems to carry even more when he’s at home, like he’s trying to command some attention for himself when he’s surrounded by so many other personalities. He does a lot of good-natured shouting, and being around Louis’ family has many of Louis’ little quirks making a lot more sense. Harry never had to be very attentive to others, or loud, or competitive for scarce resources when he was growing up. His family had been well off, and he and Gemma had been best friends almost as soon as he left the womb. But Louis did have to be those things, and Harry can see all of that upbringing in him now. Harry loves watching Louis interact with his family, and little by little, Harry almost feels like a part of it too.

When Harry first met Jay he’d had that same feeling. Ignoring any pleasantries or awkwardness, she had immediately wrapped him in a warm, motherly embrace.

“Oh, you are perfect aren’t you?” she’d said, holding Harry’s blushing cheeks gently in her hands. Harry'd had a funny feeling about who had described him as perfect before.

Jay was all soft curves and kind smiles, and her warm, matriarchal presence could be felt as soon as Harry set foot through the door. She was very nurturing, a trait she very much had in common with Louis. Harry had helped her prepare dinner a few times and they got along smashingly, trading jokes and spatulas and stories about their favorite mutual interest: Louis. Most of the time Harry was with the kids though, giving Jay and Mark some time to relax after they got home from work. Louis liked to take tea with his mum then, which he said they used to do together every evening when Louis still lived at home. When everyone’s days were so busy, that had often been the only chance Jay and Louis would get to catch up, and Harry is more than happy to let the girls put sparkly barrettes in his hair or watch old Winnie the Pooh VHS tapes with them in order to give Louis that time with his mum again.

It’s after dinner, getting proper dark out already, and Harry can see Louis and Jay sitting and laughing at the kitchen table with their tea now. Harry has himself propped up on his elbows on the living room floor, coloring in the family of bears on the page Daisy ripped out of a coloring book for him. They’re all in a circle, Harry, Phoebe, Daisy, and Fizzy, taking the crayons they need from the pile sitting in the middle of them all. It’s obviously a well-loved set of crayons, all of them blunt at the ends (except for the white ones, of course), and most of them in pieces. Harry is peeling down the paper edge of one magenta nub, tongue sticking out of his mouth in concentration, when Louis appears at his side. He tilts his head to the side, inspecting Harry’s half-finished work from above.

“Your bears are pink, Haz,” he points out.

“That’s because they’re bears from Mars, Louis,” Phoebe dutifully informs him. “Duh.”

Harry smirks. “Yeah, don’t stifle our creative vision, Lou.”

Louis laughs. “Well I’m afraid that’s exactly what I’m here to do.” He pokes Phoebe and Daisy each in the bum with a socked toe. “Some little ducks can’t finish coloring their ducks because they need to get to bed.”

“Aww, Lou!” the twins whine in unison.

Louis raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m not in charge here! I’m just following mum’s orders.”

That doesn’t really stop the whining, however. “Tell you what,” Harry puts in. “I’ll put all of our pages in this folder here, then next time I come over we can finish ‘em. Sound good?”

“Okay…” the girls reluctantly agree.

After they've handed over their coloring pages, Phoebe places a tiny hand on Harry’s forearm. “Will you help me pick out my pajamas, Harry?” she asks.

“Of course, bug,” Harry smiles, picking both himself and Phoebe up off the floor.

Together, Louis and Harry wash waxy residue off little fingers and get teeth brushed without much further complaint from Daisy or Phoebe. They tuck the girls in their bunk beds, Harry makes sure to flip the yellow crescent moon nightlight on, and Louis plants a big kiss on both of their foreheads.

“Night, loves,” Louis calls, pulling their door shut with a creak and flipping off the hallway light when they pass by.

They both slump back onto the couch in unison once they return to the living room. “Ready to go soon?” Louis asks, rolling his head along the back of the couch to look at Harry.

“Yeah sure,” Harry nods. “Gotta be up early tomorrow.”

Louis nods too, but they don’t make any effort to get up. After a moment he looks over at Harry again. “You’re really great with them, you know?”

Harry shrugs. “They’re great kids.”

“Yeah, they’re alright I guess…”

Harry smacks Louis on the arm. “You love ‘em,” he says. “And I like being around them. I’ve always wanted kids myself.”

“Really?” Louis asks. “Even as young as you are?”

“I’m not that much younger than you, pal,” Harry says, wrinkling his nose at him. “But yeah, me and Eli were always planning on having a handful of kids, much further down the road. We were never worried about rushing anything, waiting until Eli got his Ph.D. and all that.” Harry clears his throat. “We just always thought we’d have the…time.”

It’s something that happens a lot more often now, Harry revealing small pieces from his life with Eli to Louis. He’s not worried about how Louis will react anymore. He’s never jealous or dismissive about it, and he doesn’t pity Harry. Most of the time Louis just nods his head and squeezes Harry’s arm to show he understands, that he’s there whether Harry wants to say more or not. Louis is a good listener, and Harry treasures him for that. The more Harry says, the easier it is to talk about the thoughts and memories and feelings he’d always avoided before.

Louis bumps his shoulder against Harry’s. “Me too, one hundred percent,” he says. “I’ve always wanted kids, marriage, the whole thing.”

Harry smiles up at him, a bit sadly. They don’t talk about it anymore after that.

It takes Harry a lot of feeble tugging on Louis’ arms to finally get both of them up off the couch. They collect their paper plates of lemon poppy seed muffins Jay has insisted on sending them home with, and they both peck a kiss on her cheek on their way out the door. In the car Louis passes Harry the AUX cord, and Harry knows by now that there’s only enough time for a couple of songs between the Tomlinson's house and his, so he has to pick carefully. He chooses [Night Drive by Gotye](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7dOq6EQey_M), for the glowing street lamps they pass under, and the quiet, undisturbed August night surrounding them.

 _It’s the perfect night to just drive on by,_ Harry sings softly to himself, watching the lines on the road flash by, his eyelids slowly drawing down. _Such a quiet joy._ _And you’re my favorite boy_.

Had Harry noticed the glances Louis was stealing the whole drive over, he would’ve be a lot more concerned for his safety.

It doesn’t come as much of a surprise when Louis parks the car on Harry’s street and follows him inside. Harry used to think of Louis staying the night as more of a “when we’re drunk and it’s convenient” sort of thing, but recently it had pretty much become the norm. Harry can mostly pin it on Louis’ sheer laziness and the aversion he has to driving the ten minutes to his flat when he’s already tired and Harry has a queen-sized bed available. Somewhere in the back of his mind, though, Harry thinks Louis maybe just doesn’t want him to have to sleep alone. He’d started staying over a lot more often after that morning Harry accidentally let it slip that he thought his bed was lonely. Harry tries not to give the idea much weight. He never asks Louis to spend the night, but he never sends him away either. He sleeps a lot easier with Louis around, Harry can admit that to himself. He feels better with the cold, empty side of the bed filled, a person warming up the mattress next to him, a sleeping face for him to see before gets up to go to the bakery. It’s not that it’s _Louis_ , per say, it’s just having the added security of another person with him. With another presence in the house, Harry worries less about someone breaking in or his house becoming spontaneously haunted, or something.

Louis stays over often enough that Harry’s living room blankets have now taken up permanent residence in his bed. Harry is a notorious cover-stealer, and after Louis spent too many mornings waking up shivering, Harry snuggled up in a duvet cocoon beside him and leaving Louis with only a sheet, he’d finally put his foot down. Now Louis keeps the blankets to himself so that Harry can roll himself up in the duvet all he wants. Other than that, they’re well matched for bed sharing. Harry’s a light sleeper, almost any noise can wake him up, but Louis is absolutely silent in his sleep. And Louis sleeps like the dead, probably to make up for the fact that he never stops moving during the day, and remains unbothered by Harry’s nighttime snuffling. They keep their legs to themselves and sides are respected – they both know cuddling will make it too hot for either of them to sleep. That’s the excuse they’ve come up with, at least. It’s not for a lack of interest in it, certainly, since they spend the better part of the daylight hours attached at the hip.

Harry thinks he should be glad that some boundaries still exist between the two of them, so he feels conflicted when he always wants to reach out and hold Louis when they get in bed together. It’s mostly just reflex at this point, or so he tells himself. He keeps Louis tucked into his side all day – it only seems natural to want the same at night. But Harry thinks some things should be left to the daytime, even if Louis would never turn him down. It’s better that they don’t wake up pressed together, bodies warm from sharing heat all night. Certain intimacies are better left unexplored.

Harry only breaks his rule one time, the evening Louis comes down with some kind of twenty-four hour bug that has him reduced to a chattering, shivering mess in Harry’s bed. Louis is not one to allow himself to be doted on, so Harry of course takes full advantage of his momentary weakness to do just that. He hovers around Louis all evening, maybe going a bit overboard with the homemade chicken noodle soup and the fetching of lozenges, but Louis is forced to just sit there and take it, too busy sniffling and coughing to refuse the help, and Harry not so secretly delights in it. It makes Louis roll his eyes a lot – never too sick to be flippant – but he lets Harry take care of him anyway, and not so secretly enjoys it.

Louis doesn’t improve much by the time Harry goes to bed that night. In fact, Harry thinks he’s gotten even worse as he climbs under the covers next to him, taking in Louis’ pale face and lips chapped with fever. He looks like he might be asleep already but Harry’s not sure how he could be when his whole body wracks with chills, the bed shaking along with him. Harry pushes Louis’ sweaty fringe away from his face to press the back of his hand to his forehead, feeling his burning, tacky skin. Harry's done his best work tucking Louis in under a whole mountain of blankets, but it obviously isn’t enough. He shakes out the duvet and pulls it over them both – he’ll be much better at sharing tonight.

“You’re going to get sick too, sleeping in here,” Louis mumbles, not opening his eyes.

“And you’re supposed to be asleep,” Harry retorts.

“Can’t. Too busy dying.” Louis coughs pitifully. “I’m not long for this world, Harry.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Harry says, tucking the duvet around Louis and tugging him closer.

Louis’ eyes shoot open when Harry begins bundling him into his arms. He tries his best in his weakened state to wriggle away from Harry’s grasp without much success.

“I’m serious Harry, I don’t want you to get sick,” he rasps, stopping his squirming to frown up at him, teeth chattering.

“Lou, you literally sneezed into my mouth today. I think we’re beyond exposure precautions,” Harry replies drolly. Louis tries valiantly to extract himself from the circle of Harry’s arms again but Harry doesn’t relent. “Jesus, Louis, would you just let me hold you?” he grunts when an elbow jabs into his ribs.

Louis finally stills at that, and Harry doesn’t hesitate to wrap himself around him, spread half on top of Louis like the human electric blanket Harry knows he can be. Louis shifts around a bit more until he’s comfortable, tucking his head under Harry’s chin, fingers fidgeting with the holey collar of Harry’s worn sleep shirt.

“You know, sweating out a fever is only a myth,” he remarks conversationally.

Harry only hums in response. It’s not like he was going to just lie there and let his boy shiver all night. They both drift off about the time Louis stops shaking.

Sometimes when he stays the night, Louis also tags along with Harry to his early morning bakery shifts. Harry doesn’t do it on purpose, but if he’s loud enough as he stumbles around the room in the darkness of the pre-dawn mornings, he can manage to wake Louis up. Louis is never happy to be conscious before six a.m., primly informing Harry that once he’s awake there’s no hope of him going back to sleep so he might as well just go to work with him. He punishes Harry for disturbing him by forcing him to make tea before they leave.

Louis is at his softest and sleepiest in the early mornings, and it’s one of Harry’s favorite ways to see him, hair all rumpled and hands tucked into his shirtsleeves. Louis is definitely not a morning person like Harry is, but after he’s had his cup of tea (and half of Harry’s), his grumpiness begins to wear off. He still stays quiet though, as they drive down the abandoned, ink-dark streets, as Harry unlocks the bakery door and the bells on the handle ring out in greeting, as the ovens get switched on and the overnight chill of the bakery dissipates, and as he perches on a stool, resting his chin in his hand, half-asleep again as he watches Harry go about his work, folding croissants or mixing up batter.

They drink more tea and always split one of the giant, plate-sized cinnamon rolls after the first batch comes out of the oven, slathering it in butter and the cream cheese frosting Harry whips by hand. Louis is much more willing to help out then, after he has some food in him. So everyday Harry tries to teach him something new, whether it’s how to whisk, or about proper measurements and recipe sizes, or how to make the perfect soft, amber caramel. He lets Louis roll out dough across the big industrial table and frost dessert bars, or has him fetch ingredients for him from the walk-in cooler. Like feeding Louis fruits and vegetables, Harry considers teaching him how to bake to be another trail on Louis’ path to better living.

Margot and Barbara also take quite the shine to Louis once he starts coming around the bakery more often, and Barbara even goes as far as giving him his own apron to hang up in the supply closet. It’s the orange and blue striped one that’s been gathering dust in the back of the kitchen, unused for years, and it doesn’t match their dark green staff aprons, but Louis loves it all the same.

Harry’s still not sure how Louis managed to charm the ladies so thoroughly, but he is Louis after all, and Harry did once witness him placing an overdramatic, princely kiss to Margot’s hand. That sort of thing probably had something to do with it. The ladies blush at his compliments and titter at his jokes, and Harry is more than a little bitter that his own Harry-charm has worn off over the years. Now he just gets told off for messing about. Louis notices his indignation, of course, and starts raising his eyebrows at Harry in challenge every time one of the ladies flutters away from them with their cheeks flushed. Harry will not be provoked into a fight for their affections though, rolling his eyes and flicking Louis with flour instead of giving in. Barbara and Margot tell him off for that too, which really only serves to make Louis even more smug.

When Harry ends up on counter duty Louis stays up front too, running around behind him sacking loaves of bread and boxing pastries as needed. Harry insists that he doesn’t really have to do anything since he’s not actually on the payroll, but Louis genuinely seems to enjoy it, and who is Harry to take that away from him? They work in tandem, and Harry jokingly introduces Louis to the regulars as “the intern” when they come in. They all know better of course, having heard Barbara and Margot’s stories about the boys and witnessed how they orbit each other for themselves. Sometimes they give Harry a wink or a meaningful pat on the hand, and it makes Harry blush like a teenager, embarrassed by his overinvolved parents.

Harry introduces the customers to Louis too, always leaning into his space to murmur their names and stories into his ear after they’ve walked away. One day, during a lull in the lunch rush, Louis challenges Harry to name every person sitting around at the crowded bakery tables. He doesn’t believe that Harry personally knows every customer he serves, and Harry is happy to prove him wrong.

He starts with the corner table. “That’s Mr. Azoff,” he says lowly. “He lets me call him Irving now that I’ve been to his house, but it’s probably Mr. Azoff to you. He’s got quite the reputation. I heard he once sent a live python to someone who insulted his wife.” Louis nods his head at that, impressed. Harry thought Louis might appreciate that kind of mischief. “He’s actually quite nice though, gives good advice. And he loves my cheese danishes. That’s his son Jeff who he’s with. We all call him Jefe but I don’t know why.” Harry points out the family next to them. “That’s Tom and Lou and their daughter Lux. Lux just turned seven, I made her birthday cake last week. It had ponies on it. And Lou does my hair. Well, used to I suppose,” Harry corrects, running a hand through the length of his hair.

Louis snorts. “Obviously.”

“Yeah. And over there is Ben Winston,” Harry says, his lip curling in distaste. “He’s very…irritating.”

Louis whistles. “Jeez Harry, I think that’s the worst I’ve ever heard you speak of someone.”

“Well he is the worst, so. One time I had to deliver an order to him and he made me wait in the freezing cold on a bridge for twenty minutes. I nearly got hypothermia.”

“What a prick.”

“I’d have to agree. We don’t even _do_ deliveries. The guy next to him is Julian…”

And so it goes. Harry truly does know all of the people who regularly visit the bakery. It’s one of the things Louis loves about him, this benevolence he has for every person. Harry doesn’t just blithely ask people about their days, he asks them about their _lives_ because he always takes the time engage with them in the first place, even if it’s just in the span of a checkout. And he remembers what they tell him too. Harry asks Jeff how his last charity golf tournament went, and talks to Lux for ten minutes about her horse riding lessons, and even asks Ben about his latest project without any of the thinly veiled contempt Louis would never be able to hide. Harry just has this unending sincerity and support for others, and Louis would be embarrassed about the dopey, adoring faces he probably makes at Harry at the bakery all day if it wasn’t already glaringly obvious how gone he is.

It’s something that’s been eating Louis alive for weeks now, these overwhelming _feelings_ he can’t seem to tamp down. He looks at Harry and he just sees _everything_. A warm thrill uncoils in his diaphragm and the tips of his fingers tingle with a need to reach out and hold him, to twine their fingers together. Louis holds himself back every time, not wanting to push Harry into something he doesn’t want, or worse, away from him, but it feels like Louis’ chest is being hollowed out every time he does withdraw. He supposes that’s why matches are supposed to be reciprocated, so you’re not left with a gap where someone else is supposed to belong. Against everything he believes, Louis knows that it’s true, that the soulmate matches are nearly absolute. But what he won’t believe is that he never even had a choice to begin with, that what he and Harry have is some grand act of authoritative destination and not simply Louis finding a place for his love, finding someone he can hold so dear to his heart. He won’t believe that this is only a match when Harry isn’t even matched to him at all, when it feels like it could be so much more than that if they just got the chance to move beyond what a couple of marks on their arms predestined them to.

So Louis carries these feelings around with him every single day, not saying a word about them, and he feels like a liar by omission in doing so. He can hardly believe Harry hasn’t caught on by now, but perhaps Louis has been more subtle than he thinks. Regardless, Harry deserves to know, deserves the chance to bow out gracefully before things get any worse. Louis is scared of what will happen when Harry does find out, though. What will he do if Harry turns him away? Harry so strongly believes he doesn’t have the capacity to love Louis like he deserves, and he has this hurt inside him that Louis isn’t fully capable of healing, and all of it has Harry shrinking away from something Louis knows he could feel. Might already feel.

 _You have to promise you won’t fall in love with me_. Louis remembers Harry saying it all those weeks ago, and he had been joking at the time but on some level, Louis believes he wasn’t really joking at all.

Louis needs to tell him.

> <

Harry thinks it will be weird when summer is over and Louis isn’t always up in his space, wreaking havoc around the bakery for a couple hours every day, lounging on Harry’s couch when Harry gets home from work, eating Harry’s wheat crackers he claims to hate, cuddling Harry while they watch the Netflix documentaries Louis loves. He’s not sure what it will be like once Louis essentially has to return to his real life, because those things surely won’t be able to continue in the same way Harry has found comfort in. Louis will be back to teaching and having actual work to do, and his time won’t just be spent idly passing the summer days away with Harry.

They’ve settled so easily into this world they’ve created around each other, and Harry doesn’t know what happens when that ends. Summer hasn’t seemed so far removed from reality since Harry was in secondary school, back before he had a real job and responsibilities that didn’t end when the school year did. Harry doesn’t think that his and Louis’ days spent half naked doing absolutely nothing, and the evenings of playing football with the boys after dinner and getting a little wine drunk, and especially all of the nights Louis spends in Harry’s bed will translate very well into the fall.

They’re lying in bed now as Harry thinks about all of this, his mind whirling as he tries and fails to fall asleep. Louis seems to be as equally as unsettled as Harry, if the constant twitching of his legs is any indication. It’s raining outside, a gentle pitter-patter against the window accompanied by the distant thunder of the storm that's already passed through. Harry had insisted that Louis stay over instead of driving home through the storm, which is why they’re both still awake in Harry’s bed now. Normally the rhythmic sound of rain would put them straight to sleep, but not tonight.

Harry is just envisioning himself putting all of his troublesome thoughts into a box and physically placing it in the back of his mind when he feels Louis flop over onto his side so they’re facing each other. Even with his eyes closed, Harry can still feel Louis staring at him.

“Whaaaat,” he drawls out, voice rough in the dark. He has his hands tucked in the space between their pillows and Louis reaches over and wraps his fingers around Harry’s wrist lightly, thumb barely-there as it strokes over his pulse point. Harry opens his eyes at the feeling, finding Louis’ face close and solemn. “What?” he asks again, more gravely.

“You would always want me to be honest with you, right?” Louis questions hesitantly. “Like, even if it was maybe something you didn’t want to hear, you’d want me to tell you anyway…right?”

Harry frowns, his heart rate picking up. Louis can probably feel it quicken where he’s holding his wrist. “Of course, Lou. What’s going on?”

Louis continues to stare at him, almost searchingly, until another far away rumble of thunder breaks him out of his trance. He looks away quickly, down to Harry’s hands. It’s not like Louis to be meek, to be cautious around Harry, and Harry wracks his brain trying to think of what this could possibly be about. Has something bad happened? Has he done something wrong? When nothing out of the ordinary comes to mind, Harry just shifts closer to Louis, not moving his arm out of Louis’ grasp. Louis does that sometimes - reaches out to Harry, holds on to a piece of him like a grounding point - and Harry isn’t about to pull away when Louis is obviously feeling unsure of himself.

“Lou?” he prompts again.

“I think I’m falling for you,” Louis blurts, the words shaky as they rush out on the tail end of a breath, like it physically took something out of him to say it. He meets Harry’s gaze again fearfully, lips tucked into his mouth as if to keep himself from saying anything more damaging, as if he regrets opening his mouth in the first place. Louis looks like he’s anticipating nuclear fallout as the result of his confession, and Harry hates himself for allowing Louis to feel like his own honesty and emotions would be destructive.

For Harry, this was always a foregone conclusion.

“I’m not expecting anything, Harry, I swear, I just thought you had a right to know,” Louis trips over his words to continue, rushing to fill Harry’s silence. “You have no obligation and you shouldn’t have to be stuck with this if you don’t want to. I know it isn’t what you wanted, you’ve said it from the beginning, so I just – you can walk away if you have to.” The _but I don’t want you to, please_ is left unspoken.

Harry feels like he’s splintering, the cracks in his own foundation exposed at Louis’ vulnerability. But this is not about his weakness, not when Louis looks about two more beats of silence away from losing it. “Hey, shh,” Harry soothes, turning his wrist around so he’s the one grasping Louis’ palm. “It’s okay, it’s alright. I’m not going anywhere.”

Louis lets out the quivering breath he seemed to have been holding, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m sorry, Harry. I’m so sorry –”

“Do not apologize, Lou,” Harry interjects fiercely, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “Never for how you feel. This isn’t catastrophic news. I always knew it was going to happen –”

“I know,” Louis says, and Harry would never have made Louis say he told him so but it turns out he doesn’t have to. “And you were right. I couldn’t help it.”

“Of course you couldn’t, that’s how this works,” Harry reassures softly. “I was made for you.”

It’s not boastful, or self-righteous, it’s a statement of fact. It’s what that compass tattoo on Louis’ arm has meant all along, what Harry has seen from the beginning. But it makes Louis frown all the same. “No, you were _made_ to be Harry,” he corrects. “You’re just perfect for me.”

Harry’s doesn’t want to get into it again, so he smiles thinly and doesn’t say anything at all. He knows there will need to be a conversation eventually, but the clock he can see glowing beside Louis’ head on the nightstand says 12:54, and his eyes are suddenly feeling a lot heavier, his thoughts much stiller. It’s a subconscious defense mechanism if Harry’s ever seen one but he’s willing to take it. Louis thinks he’s broken Harry’s trust, expects to be completely rejected at any moment. He’s tense like he’s ready to be thrown out of Harry’s bed, and all he needs now is some reassurance. At the very least, Harry can give him that.

“You’re allowed to feel this, Louis,” he assures, clasping their fingers together. “And I’m sorry I can’t give you anything more, but it’s not going to change me and you.”

Louis stays tense, brows furrowing further like he’s not quite satisfied with what Harry has said. “So what’s going to happen then?”

Harry meets his gaze. “I don’t know, Louis,” he whispers. He gathers him up into a hug then, releasing his hand to wrap his arms around Louis’ shoulders. “Please don’t be afraid of telling me these things though,” Harry murmurs into his ear. “And if it ever starts to hurt too much…”

He trails off. Harry doesn’t know what happens when their relationship becomes too volatile to continue. Louis seems to understand though, clutching his arms a little tighter around Harry’s waist. “Okay,” he whispers.

Normally Harry would back off, retreat to his side of the bed, but when Louis finally begins to relax in his arms, the taut lines of his body slowly dissolving, Harry doesn’t want to let him feel abandoned. So Harry rolls over onto his other side and pulls Louis’ arm around his waist, back pressed to his front. This way Louis might feel like he still holds a part of Harry, even if it’s not what he wants. Even if it’s not enough.

The rain has stopped altogether now. Harry doesn’t think about the summer ending in less than a week. He doesn’t think about Louis falling for him. He doesn’t think about where they go from here. He takes that metaphorical box in the back of his mind and packs it full of the things that feel too scary or hurtful to consider. Harry doesn’t want to think about the future, so he thinks back on the last few weeks instead. He reminisces about an afternoon bathed in sunlight, and about the time he and Louis hid in a cupboard during hide-and-seek, waiting for one of the girls to find them, and about the nights spent laughing in dusk-dewy grass with all of his friends.

The summer is an engram of particular moments now, hazy episodes that play behind Harry’s eyes as he drifts off to sleep with an arm holding him close. All of those days of summer will blur together soon, but Harry will always remember them in his senses. They’ll be coconut-scented sunscreen and burnt cinnamon toast, grass stains on knees and flour-streaked hair, blue raspberry tongues and citrus sticky fingers, sunshine freckles and soft hands, warm tan skin and seaglass eyes. Harry will always remember those days of summer as the time he fell in love with Louis Tomlinson.

But he doesn’t know that yet.


	7. Chapter Seven

It takes a fight for Harry to realize.

After only two days of Harry acting like their late night conversation had never happened, the proverbial breaking point is reached. Harry had said Louis’ feelings weren’t going to change them, but that couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Louis is distant in the days following, unsure of where they stand despite Harry’s assurances. He’s unsteady, uncertain of how to go about being around Harry without going too far, without making what could be construed as a “move.” Louis doesn’t seem to know how to touch Harry now, a hesitation appearing in his movements that was never there before. And Harry, pretending nothing has changed in their dynamic, overcompensates, like he’s forgotten what they were even like before Louis’ admission. He’s too tactile and overly responsive, not wanting Louis to fret, not wanting him to think that he’s bothered or ready to flee at any moment. And Harry’s behavior only makes Louis more wary as he tries to avoid any longing gazes or tender touches, as he tries to avoid getting too attached. It’s a pressure cooker of mixed emotions and avoided conversations. If there was anything Harry and Louis had been confident in, it was their affection for each other. But against everything Harry promised, six words had changed how they thought they could feel about each other.

It all comes to a head on a Wednesday evening. They’re on the couch and Harry is practically asleep on Louis’ shoulder, arms circling his middle. Louis hadn’t even squirmed away when Harry snuck his arms around him, which Harry considered a victory. Compared to the past few days, Louis even seems content as he picks through the bowl of microwave popcorn in his lap, only eating the most buttery morsels and crunching on the old maids he fishes out from the bottom of the bowl. Which is well and good, since Harry only eats the plainest unbuttered pieces. They’re watching some mindless program on telly, whatever Louis had switched it to after his show ended. Harry’s eyes are bleary and he hasn’t bothered trying to figure out what it is. He just stays relaxed into Louis’ side, face resting on the soft cotton of his shirt, breathing in his laundry-and-Louis smell.

Harry’s position makes it all the more obvious when Louis starts to tense up under him, like he’s only just realized how they’re sitting. His shoulders inch upward, and the looseness in his limbs is replaced with the hard lines of tension Harry has become all too familiar with. Harry doesn’t disentangle his arms from where they rest at Louis’ hip but he does lift his head to peer at the side of Louis’ face, taking in the set of his jaw and the hard glint of his eyes.

Harry is almost afraid to ask but he does anyway. “Lou? What’s going –”

“I can’t do this anymore,” Louis cuts in.

The night he’d admitted his feelings, Louis had said he wasn’t expecting anything from Harry. But like Harry insisting nothing would change, it turns out Louis was lying too.

Harry startles at Louis’ words, withdrawing his hands from him like he’s been burned as Louis shakes himself out of Harry’s arms. Louis places the popcorn bowl on the coffee table and moves away from Harry to the end of the couch, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.

“Louis I – I don’t know what’s going on,” Harry stutters, raising his hands in surrender. He so strongly wants to reach out to comfort but Harry thinks that would only make it worse. “What do you mean? What –”

“I’m fucking falling in love with you and you’re making it so hard,” Louis says, voice cracking at the end of his sentence. He scrubs his hands away from his face and turns to look at Harry. “You make it so hard, Harry.”

Harry hopes his wide-eyed look of panic isn’t too obvious as he scrambles to sort out his thoughts and Louis’ words and how to _fix_ whatever is suddenly broken all at once.

“Is it me touching you? I’m so sorry Lou, I never wanted to make you uncomfortable. I just didn’t want things to change, didn’t want you to think you’ve freaked me out. I can stop though, I swear. I can make it easier, whatever you need me to do –”

Louis lets out a choked, frustrated laugh, cutting off Harry’s rush of words. The ugly, pained sound of it makes Harry’s chest constrict. “It’s not what you _do,_ Harry, it’s how you _think_ that makes everything you do hurt so goddamn much,” Louis says.

The word _hurt_ reverberates around Harry’s head like a ricocheting bullet. This is what he’d been afraid of all along. “I don’t understand,” Harry whimpers. The tightening in his chest has moved up to his throat, a hard lump settling there to match the sudden burning in his eyes. “Tell me what’s going on, what I can do to help. I didn’t want things to have to change but it’s obviously only making it worse for you. How do I help? How can I be your friend –”

“That’s the whole fucking problem!” Louis cries, whirling to face him now. “We are _not_ _friends_ , Harry.”

It lands like a well-placed blow. Harry folds his arms around himself defensively, hurt mingling with a sudden blaze of anger. “How can you say that?” he whispers.

“We are not _friends_ because _friends_ don’t sleep in the same bed every night. You don’t hold me like a _friend._ I don’t feel the way I do about you about my _friends_ ,” Louis spits, gesturing wildly. “And you can’t seem to realize that you might just feel the same too! And it’s so fucking hard!”

Harry balks. “Do not tell me how I feel, Louis,” he argues. “You yelled at me when I did the same thing, so don’t turn around and pretend you know what I feel.”

“You’re only hurting yourself,” Louis snaps. “I get that you don’t just bounce back from your soulmate dying and I’m so fucking sorry about Eli. You know how sorry I am that you had to go through that, Harry, but you’re giving up so much right now. You get so hung up on the soulmate thing when it doesn’t have anything to do with this, with us. It’s never been that. I wish you could just see how much we could have if you’d let yourself have your own feelings again.”

Harry’s mind jumps back to a cool morning, a spluttering fountain, a flip of a coin. So much has happened since that day but apparently he and Louis are still fighting about the same things. How dare Louis pretend to know what’s best for Harry, though? How can he sit here and fight with him about what their relationship means like Harry isn’t even a part of it? How can he suggest these things, right to Harry’s face? How dare he pretend that the matches don’t matter when Harry’s changed his life so irrevocably?

That blaze of anger licks at Harry’s insides and his own burning gaze matches Louis’. “Who’s got the savior complex now, huh?” he sneers. “But here’s the thing, Lou, I never asked for this. I was fucking fine with my life. Before you and especially with Eli. So don’t pretend like you’re better than him or that you’re some kind of second chance for me. Because I never wanted one.”

Louis recoils, wounded. “Fuck you, Harry, you _know_ that’s not what I meant. You _know_ I would never say shit like that.”

“So if we’re not friends then what has this been? This whole summer. Have you just been manipulating me into, what? Dating you? Falling in love with you? What has this been?”

Louis’ entire face falls, his lips slackened with hurt and eyes brimming with tears. If Harry could move past his own self-righteous indignation, that horrified, heartbroken face would ruin him.

“Why are you being like this?” Louis whispers, nearly trembling.

Beneath Harry’s turbulent emotions, behind his walls that had snapped up so fast, in the most superego part of his mind, Harry sends out one wild hope that maybe, someday, he and Louis can stop being so cruel to one another.

“I don’t know!” Harry laughs, half-hysterical. He pushes himself off the couch, eyes raking around the room wildly. “This is just. I’m so…I don’t. I need - I need to not be here anymore,” is what he finally settles on.

He snatches his phone up from the table and then brushes past Louis to get to the kitchen. He grabs his keys off the counter as he jams his feet into his boots, not even bothering to tuck his jeans into the ankles to make himself presentable. Harry keeps his eyes focused on what he’s doing but he still feels it when Louis follows him into the room, bewildered and stricken as he watches Harry from the doorway.

“Where are you going?” he cries, throwing his arms out in confusion.

Harry doesn’t turn around to respond, just bolts out of the door and pulls it shut behind him. He doesn’t have an answer anyway.

It's a lot cooler outside than Harry had anticipated. He spares a fleeting thought for the jacket he should have grabbed off the back of the kitchen chair as he hurries down the path and away from his house. He pulls the sleeves of his hoodie down over his hands and quickly decides to just head to the closest available location: Niall’s place.

Whether it’s the distance he’s putting between himself and Louis or the brisk night air, Harry’s anger fades away rapidly, replaced mostly by confusion. Louis had asked why he was acting the way he was and Harry truthfully didn’t know, still doesn’t. He’s more the type to stumble and cave under confrontation, not lash out with such vicious defense. Not even five minutes later it already seems completely irrational. His feet are steady on the ground but Harry feels unbalanced, like he’s at a tipping point, not knowing what side he’s about to land on.

Several houses away from Niall’s flat, Harry’s introspection is interrupted when he suddenly remembers that Niall is actually in London, staying with Liam while he works away from home. Harry groans and comes to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk, wiping a hand down his face as he weighs his options. Louis’ flat is obviously out of the question, Ed’s is too far to walk, and Harry certainly won’t stoop to sleeping in the bakery. He can’t very well go back to his own house either now that he’s made a fool of himself in front of Louis, after he’s said such unjustifiable things to him and then stormed out. Harry is so embarrassed, and too proud to go back and apologize for what he’s done right away.

Just as Harry’s thinking he needs to acquire more friends, he remembers that he actually _has_ acquired more friends: Zayn and Perrie’s house is only a bit farther away than Niall’s. Though Harry wonders if it’s proper to turn up at Louis’ best mate’s door after he’s just had a spat with him, he ultimately decides he doesn’t have a better option. He turns in the direction of Zayn and Perrie’s house with a sigh.

The fight replays in his brain while Harry shuffles down the sidewalk. It feels important. He and Louis fight all the time, silly little tiffs over food or other inanities, but never quite like this. Except for their last big argument at the fountain, that is, but Harry certainly hasn’t tried to revisit that one. They’d never talked about their differences in opinion then, which apparently was not a very good strategy considering they’ve come up again and have actually driven Harry out of his own home. Perhaps he should have read some of that Sartre. Somehow he doesn’t think it would've helped. Harry obviously has wildly differing opinions and experiences with the soulmate process, and he doesn’t understand how Louis can be so cavalier about it. Harry doesn’t know how to bridge that gap between himself and Louis, but he thinks that maybe Zayn will. He’s known Louis longer. It’ll drive Harry mad not having a solution though, so he decides to push it out of his mind until he gets to Zayn.

Yet no matter how hard he tries, no matter how many pebbles he kicks or how many times he refreshes Twitter with no new results, there’s one thing Louis said that Harry can’t seem to ignore, something different, something that’s changed since their last go around. _And you can’t seem to realize that you might just feel the same too_. The words clang around in his brain, heavy, noisy, unavoidable. Demanding to be paid attention to. And they echo with every similar phrase anyone else has ever uttered. _I’m glad it’s Louis_. _Except you love him_.

Was everyone seeing something Harry wasn’t? There’s no way he could have missed something like this. He would have realized, he would have had to. Harry’s seen or spoken to Louis every single day since they sat on a bench in a park as strangers. He’s met Louis’ entire family, spent enough time with them that he feels close enough to be a part of it. He can tell two sets of twins apart, he’s tucked Louis’ sisters into bed, he kisses Louis’ mum’s cheek on his way out of the door. Harry’s told Louis things only his own mother and sister had known, spilled his guts to Louis and unwittingly unburdened himself in the process. He’s spent more consecutive nights with Louis than Harry can count, in the bed that Harry had only ever shared with his soulmate. He’s held Louis while he was sick, and held him in health for two months before that. Harry can hardly imagine the time in his life he hadn’t known Louis, and he can’t envision a future without him.

Somewhere along this winding trail of Harry’s thoughts, it stops being a list of reasons Harry would’ve known he was in love with Louis and becomes a list of why the fuck hadn’t he known he’s in love with Louis. And it hits Harry like a ton of bricks, knocking the wind right out of him. He stops so shortly he nearly stumbles into a shrub. His mind is a record scratch, the needle lifted off his thoughts and emotions so suddenly the only thing he can think is _I’m in love with Louis_ , over and over again until it stops feeling real, stops sounding like actual words.

Harry had fallen in love so softly and slowly that the realization of it now makes it feel like the earth has stopped turning, lurching Harry away from the simple spinning existence he’s always known. How could he have been so blind?

If falling in love with Eli had been easy, falling in love with Louis had been effortless. He hadn’t even noticed.

Harry is so struck that he actually walks right past Zayn and Perrie’s house and has to retrace his steps back to their front door. His heart is pounding like he’s just run for his very life, beating so hard Harry can feel it in his arms and down in his fingers. He stops to rest his forehead on their doorframe to catch his breath. He takes a moment to decide on what emotion to feel too, since they’re currently so jumbled Harry can’t distinguish one from the other. Eventually he settles on misery.

Not lifting his face from the doorframe, Harry gives the door a few solemn knocks. The lights are still on in the house, so at least he doesn’t have to guilt himself over waking Zayn and Perrie up.

Zayn is the one to answer, looking properly disheveled with his hair mussed and a blanket wrapped around him, tucked under his armpits like a towel. His brow furrows in confusion until he peers around the corner and finds Harry leaning pathetically against the side of his door.

“Aww, babes,” he clucks, giving Harry a pitying look.

Harry smiles wanly. “Hello.”

Zayn looks him up and down once and immediately narrows his eyes at him. “This is this about Louis, isn’t it?” he asks, no pretense. Zayn has always been very perceptive.

“Now why would you say that?” Harry replies, faux-cheerful as picks himself up off the wall. “Maybe I just wanted to see you, Zayn. You and Pez have been on vacation for weeks, maybe I missed you.”

“Riiight,” Zayn drawls, nodding slowly and holding the door open wider so Harry can slip past him. “Come on in then.”

Harry kicks off his shoes in the entryway and follows Zayn into the living room. A string of white fairy lights wrapping around the edge of the ceiling is the only light illuminating the room. The futon has been put down and Perrie is lounging in the papasan chair in her robe, sipping on a mug of cocoa. Harry leans over to peck a kiss on her cheek.

“Hey Pez,” he greets, then tips over backwards onto the futon.

“Aww, babes,” Perrie pouts, taking in his miserable appearance then exchanging a weighted glance with Zayn.

“Mind if I stay here tonight?” Harry mumbles at the ceiling.

“Of course, love,” Perrie says. “You’re always welcome here, you know that.”

“Thanks guys,” Harry sighs. The only sound that fills the room is the click of the heating system switching on. Harry’s eyes are closed but he can still imagine the silent conversation Perrie and Zayn are probably having over his head.

Perrie speaks up again once they’ve presumably stopped sending each other meaningful looks. “I was just heading to bed so I’ll leave you boys to it,” she says casually. “The extra quilt is in our closet, I’ll fetch that for you before I go, Hazza.” She stands up and bends to press a kiss to Harry’s forehead, the feathery ends of her hair tickling his face. “Hope you feel better,” she murmurs.

“Night, Perrie,” Harry murmurs back.

She pads out of the room, stopping only to place her empty mug in the sink with a soft _clink._ Zayn follows to kiss her goodnight, gathering up the extra quilt from her before returning to Harry and shaking it out on top of him. Harry feels the side of the futon sink as Zayn settles in next to him.

“Are you wearing anything under that blanket?” Harry quips, cracking an eye open and gesturing to Zayn’s cover-up.

Zayn smirks. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Zayn doesn’t say anything more then, pausing to see if Harry will start talking on his own. When he decides silence isn’t getting them anywhere, he prompts, “Are you going to tell me what this is about, then?”

Harry heaves a great sigh. “Me and Louis had a fight,” he begins. At his most morbid, honey-slow pace, Harry painstakingly recounts their argument and explains to Zayn everything he missed while he and Perrie were away. He leaves out the part about his own abrupt realization, however. That feels too sudden, too raw, too unexplainable to describe. And Harry’s afraid that if he says it out loud Zayn will send him away to go tell Louis. He’s not quite ready for that.

Zayn nods his way through the retelling, listening thoughtfully and not interrupting. When Harry’s finished, Zayn lays down next to him so their are faces close. His breath smells like cigarettes and bedtime tea. “Louis loves you a lot, you know,” he says.

Harry sighs again. “I’m beginning to realize that, yes.”

“I’m a bit bloody tired of hearing about it to be honest, bro,” Zayn says. “Even before recently, when things got more serious, he always nattered on about you. He’s always thought you were something special.”

Harry smiles, warming at the thought. “Do you _not_ think I’m something special Zayn?” he teases.

“Aw, come off it,” Zayn groans, shoving him in the shoulder. “You know I love ya. But we’re not here to talk about me, are we?”

Harry hums. “Suppose not.”

Another stretch of silence. “So what are you going to do?”

Harry rolls over to his side to face him. “I don’t know, I was hoping _you_ would tell me,” he says. “Because I’m very confused. I don’t know why Louis doesn’t think the matches don’t matter, and I don’t know how to be what he wants.” (The _I’m in love with Louis_ repeating in Harry’s brain like a skipping disc betrays his words.) “I hate fighting with him.”

Zayn considers this. “I’m not sure what to tell you, Harry, but I know Lou would never push you if he didn’t think you could take it. He’s not cruel, and he wouldn’t try to force something from you if it’d hurt you more than it helped him. He’s devious, but he’s not cruel,” Zayn smiles fondly. He pauses for a long while, as if he’s considering the consequences of his next words. “Have you ever thought about whether his feelings are…reciprocated?” he asks slowly.

Harry’s heartbeat picks up again, to the steady beat of _I’m in love with Louis I’m in love with Louis I’m in love with Louis_. “How could that be possible though? He’s not my soulmate.”

Zayn frowns at him gently. “You’re right. But if you feel something then why does it matter?” He pauses to let that sink in, resting his palm against Harry’s neck and brushing his fingers at his cheek. “Think about it,” he finishes, flourishing his words with a smack to Harry's face. “I’m going to go to sleep.”

With that, Zayn rolls off the futon and onto his feet with the air of someone who’s just imparted some great wisdom. He tucks the quilt around every inch of Harry’s body before he leaves and Harry grumbles, feeling a little patronized by it. “Goodnight Zayn!” he calls after Zayn’s retreating figure.

When Harry’s finally alone, laying on the lumpy futon, staring up at the glowing fairy lights until his eyes grow heavy, he contemplates how to reverse the twenty-three years he’s spent thinking that he could only ever love the person a single mark on his arm had promised him.

> <

Harry doesn’t have a good solution by the time he’s startled awake by his alarm the next morning. It’s the tone that sounds like a nuclear meltdown warning and it scares the shit out of him every time, but Harry hasn’t thought to change it since Louis, the arsehole, switched it the week before.

Perrie’s already awake for work, Harry can hear her moving around the kitchen quietly as she assembles a bowl of Weetabix, so he decides to go to the bathroom while it’s still available. He scrubs his teeth with toothpaste on his finger and straightens his sleep-rumpled clothes as best he can. He gives his drooping curls a despairing look, reminding himself that this is why he doesn’t go so many days without a shower. It certainly won’t be the worst he’s ever looked at work, though.

Harry borrows one of Perrie’s silk scarfs to tie around his head and bums a ride to the bakery from her, thanking her profusely the whole way. If he walks into the bakery fifteen minutes late, Barbara is gracious enough not to say anything about it. She doesn’t mention the fact that his flowery purple headscarf doesn’t match his wrinkled green hoodie either. It’s a slow day, so Harry just mopes through his Thursday morning duties while Barbara observes his lackluster folding of the cinnamon twists and his uninspired sales. He goes about his work on autopilot, looking like a right mess with a pout on his face.

Barbara knows Harry can have a good long strop when he really puts his mind to it, so she also knows that if she wants to get a decent day’s work out of him she might as well attempt to get him out of his funk. By the time Harry goes on his lunch break – the lunch break he's decided to spend feeling very sorry for himself – Barbara’s had enough. She pulls out the chair across from him at the table he’s sitting at, his head laid down and face pressed flat on the surface, sandwich and tea forgotten in front of him.

“Harry, darling,” she says soothingly, petting Harry’s forearms. “What ever is the matter?”

“I’m in love with Louis,” Harry mumbles into the table, words muffled. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud. It doesn’t make him any less miserable.

“Well that’s lovely, dear,” Barbara says. She’d suspected as much. “But why are you so sad?”

“I told you, because I’m in love with Louis,” Harry repeats, picking up his head this time so she can hear him clearly.

Barbara eyes him confusedly. “…Is this a recent discovery?”

“Yes,” Harry whines. “But apparently only for me.”

“Oh, Harry,” Barbara replies sympathetically. “You poor fool. You’ve been following that boy around all summer, dreadfully love-struck. What did you think you were doing?”

Harry only whines again in response.

“But still, falling in love is great! What’s got you so down? Did Louis reject you?”

“The other way around, really. We fought about it and I said some nasty things and walked out and then I realized.”

“Oh dear,” Barbara chuckles. “You are a fool.”

“Heyyyy –”

“I take it you haven’t told him then?” Barbara goes on, ignoring his pouting. Harry shakes his head. “You really ought to do that, Harry,” she scolds. “What the heck are you doing here?”

“I had to work!” Harry cries, throwing his arms out to indicate the deserted bakery around them. He sighs. “And I don’t even know how this happened in the first place, Barbara. He’s not my soulmate. I’ve already been in love. I didn’t know it could happen again, and I’ve apparently spent the last two months making Louis miserable because of it.”

“I’ve never once seen that boy miserable around you, Harry. You could keep his loving gazes packed up in jars,” Barbara argues, hooking a thumb over her shoulder to the shelves of jam behind her. Harry gives a tired laugh at the sentiment. “And as for love, I think you’ve been led astray, my dear. Love happens all the time, and I find that those people who fall in love every day are some of the very best. They fall in love with words, and songs, and the littlest things we all take for granted. And with people too; people on the street, people they see every day, and sometimes even their best friends,” Barbara says, giving Harry a significant look. “What you haven’t realized is that you’re one of them, Harry. Of course you can fall in love again, my sweet boy, I’ve watched you do it every single day. You love to love. And because you obviously need to hear it, _it’s okay to love Louis too_. It doesn’t matter that he’s not your soulmate, because it’s not the matches, it’s our ability to love at all that makes us people.” She squeezes his hands meaningfully. “Soulmate matches are important but they never limit us. They don’t have to be a period, they’re a comma. There is no limit to your love, Harry.”

Barbara sits back then, monologue finished, and takes a dignified sip of Harry’s neglected tea. Harry just sits there, slack-jawed and gaping at her as his entire foundation is completely rocked. He feels like he’s just received the sobering smack of a lifetime.

 _There is no limit to your love._ Harry feels fuller at the words somehow, like everything has suddenly, inevitably, snapped perfectly into place. What the fuck had he been thinking? Why had he even been clinging so desperately to the soulmate matches when he’d only been resentful of them since Eli’s death? He’d been holding himself back. He’d been so angry that he didn’t have a choice that he’d unwittingly taken his own choice away from himself. He’d been so focused on the matching that he’d clinically removed the real emotional impact of them. That’s what mattered, that’s what he’d been missing all along: feeling.

 _Did you feel like something forced you fall in love with Eli?_ _If you’d just let yourself have your feelings as your own again I think you’d be a lot happier._ Louis had been right the whole time, and he’d been patiently waiting for Harry to catch the fuck up for so long that he can’t do it anymore. God, Harry owes Louis so many apologies he doesn’t know how he’ll ever get them all out. But he understands now. Now, Harry can open himself up to the feeling he’s denied himself all along, and he basks in the glow of it.

It’s no wonder he hadn’t noticed he was in love, hadn’t recognized his own unflinching affection, because Harry has never experienced such an unattached, incomparable love before, profound in its unexpectedness and intensity. Harry had known what was happening with Eli, the tattoos had been there to guide him. He’d heard all of the stories, he’d seen the films, he’d known what to look for. But this is unprecedented, entirely new. He isn’t attached to Louis, he just _needs_ him, so viscerally Harry can almost feel it rolling off him in waves. There had been no feeling of release, no balloon having its string cut, but it doesn’t matter. Harry still feels the freedom of it, feels like he’s weightless, drifting above the ground even with his feet on the floor. The sensations are new, and overwhelming as months of build-up spill over all at once. But they don’t feel any more or less grand than Harry’s experience with matching. He’d been so wrong. This love wasn’t replacing the feelings Harry’s been bereft of without Eli. It wasn’t some kind of second chance, because there was no limit at all.

The hollow in Harry’s chest is gilded now, its jagged, deterring edges smoothed away in gold. Not to make room for another match, but to safely hold something new. Matches weren’t replaceable; Harry might never have that same fullness again, but he doesn’t have to feel empty. Maybe the whole time he’d just been waiting to find some new sense of wholeness. And he has found it, has had it all summer, in blue, blue eyes and small, gentle hands and a boy that Harry decided a long time ago he would like to hold forever, without realizing what that really meant. And Harry prays, that by some stroke of luck, he hasn’t managed to mess it up already.

Harry snaps back to reality, every one of his muscles screaming to _fix this now_. Barbara must have watched his impressive display of emotion play across his face for the last five minutes, because as soon as Harry’s eyes come into focus again, she smiles softly at him and says, “Go get your boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Ed Sheeran for the inspiration as well as the lyrics that I blatantly ripped from "Friends." What's that song about, man? Give me a call.


	8. Chapter Eight

_Damn, I really need to work out more_ , Harry thinks as he reaches his street, the stitch in his side complaining as he slows to a brisk powerwalk. He’s never missed his bike so much before; the jog from the bakery to his house had been brutal. He’s really only dropping by his place for a quick shower and to get his bike, then he’s going straight to Louis’. Or straight to a florist. Harry thinks he ought to pick up some apology flowers for the occasion. What kind of flowers meant forgiveness? _Maybe hyacinths_ , Harry muses, twisting his key in the lock with a shaking hand. He thinks he’s heard that before.

Harry’s entire body is flooded with nerves now as he anticipates seeing Louis again, knowing what he’s about to do. It’s not the bad kind of nervous though, like the sour stomach he gets before he goes on a rollercoaster, or the crawling skin he had performing at his piano recitals as a child, but a fluttery hope that settles at the bottom of his ribcage, waiting to burst with heart-pounding anticipation.

Harry pushes open the door, tosses his keys onto the counter, toes his boots off, then looks up and locks eyes with none other than Louis, who putters into the kitchen with an empty teacup pressed to his palm. They both stop dead, eying each other in surprise. Harry’s breath hitches with the shock of it, his chest still heaving in exertion. He almost laughs to himself at the picture they create, just the opposite of how they’d first met, when a breathless Louis had crashed into Harry’s bakery and into his life. He’s still as gorgeous as he was on that day but Harry can really let himself appreciate it now, his eyes wandering over every curve of Louis’ body before crawling back up to his face. Louis’ bedhead, his ragged sleep shirt – no doubt one of _Harry’s_ sleep shirts – the dip of his waist, his soft eyes…everything about him almost has Harry shouting _I’m hopelessly in love with you_ right then. But before he has the chance, Louis breaks their gaze and turns away toward the kettle waiting on the stovetop.

“You’re back early,” he notes blandly as he pours himself another cup of tea.

 _I’m in love with you_ , Harry thinks. “You’re still here,” he says instead, moving further into the kitchen carefully, not wanting Louis to bolt. Harry still has some things to make up for.

“Yeah, well you ran off with the keys so I wouldn’t have had any way to lock the door behind me now would I?” Louis replies sourly. “I didn’t want you to get all your shit stolen.”

Harry stares at him. “That was very…considerate of you.”

Louis barks a humorless laugh and walks away with his cup, back to the living room where he’d come from. Harry trails after him blindly, his body following Louis without him asking it to. Which might not have been the best course of action because as soon as they reach the couch, Louis aggressively sets down his cup of tea on the end table and whirls to face Harry, getting up in his space with a furious expression on his face.

“You’re a _fucking arsehole_ , you know that?” he explodes, repeatedly jabbing a finger to Harry’s chest. “Saying that shit to me and then leaving? You didn’t even text to say where you’d gone, just left me to assume your clumsy arse had been hit by a car or you’d found a nice ditch to spend the night in. But I get it. I get it! I’ve just been trying to get a boyfriend out of this, spent the whole summer ‘manipulating you’ into falling in love with me. That was a real fucking nice thing to hear, Harry, cheers. What would it even matter if something happened to you since you don’t feel anything back anyway? No love lost, really! I can just go find a new person to exploit! Never mind the fact that you’re my best fucking friend and it would probably kill me if I lost you.”

Louis pauses for one hysterical laugh.

“Maybe I was wrong to ask for something more, to tell you I loved you at all. I should’ve just left well enough alone but I’ve never been very good at that, now, have I? God forbid I go after something I want though, something I thought you might have wanted too if I gave you a push. But I’ve been wrong before, and I’m happy to admit I was wrong again. So sorry if I crossed the line. I told you I wouldn’t and I did, so I am very sorry, Harry,” Louis says, voice finally tapering off but still caustic.

Harry watches as Louis takes a deep, quaking breath and attempts to screw his face into some kind of agreeable expression. It comes across as more of a pained, heartbroken grimace.

“Anyway,” he concludes with a tight smile, finally backing away from Harry with his palms up. He sounds cheerful but the break in his voice gives him away. “You’re here now so I’m just going to go.”

Harry has stayed very, very still through Louis’ outburst, not wanting to interrupt, feeling like he probably deserved a good telling off anyway. But now, as he watches Louis walk away from him, Harry springs into action. He grabs onto Louis’ wrist before he’s out of reach and spins him back around to face him, roughly enough to make Louis stumble. The kiss that he presses to Louis’ lips when he catches him, however, is nothing but gentle, soft and undemanding.

For a moment Louis freezes, stiffening with the shock of Harry’s lips against his, not reciprocating the kiss in any way. When Harry feels the soft give of Louis' lips pull taut against his own, he panics. The blow of the rejection is mighty, fiercer than he ever would have thought possible, since he never imagined Louis turning him away in the first place. Heart crumbling in his chest, Harry is just about to pull away and start begging out apologies when suddenly, Louis snaps back into focus. He brings a hand up to hold Harry’s cheek in place and breathes out a long sigh. Of relief, of joy, Harry doesn’t know, but he’s never been happier to have that warm breath fanning across his face. Louis absolutely melts into the kiss then, opening his mouth to let Harry in and kissing back fervently. Their lips part together, heads turning in opposite directions to deepen it. Harry cradles Louis’ face in his palms, thumbs tracing across his cheekbones as their mouths move together slowly, perfectly. Their noses bump and their fingers tremble, clutching each other close, but their lips open and close together with what could be mistaken for practiced ease. They know each other, even as they first discover how their mouths taste together, how their lips catch and slide and spark shivers down their spines.

Harry had never given himself more than an instant to consider what kissing Louis would be like, but this surpasses anything he ever could have imagined. They fit together seamlessly, both taking small steps to bring themselves infinitely closer, like they could never be close enough. Louis tastes like tea and Harry’s toothpaste and everything Harry’s been waiting for. They kiss until Harry loses track of time, until they’re both breathless, and when they do finally split apart, lips reddened and kiss-soft, still holding each other with their foreheads pressed together, Harry looks Louis in the eyes and says lowly, “I didn’t come here to listen to you scream at me, I came to tell you I’m in love with you.”

Louis breaks into a slow grin, eyes squinting with the force of it. Every feature of his face is illuminated. “Well why didn’t you do this five minutes ago to shut me up then?” he replies.

Harry rolls his eyes, but his own grin is blinding, dimples cratering in his cheeks. “I know how you love to yell,” he says, nosing at Louis’ cheek affectionately.

Louis makes an indignant noise and pulls his face away. “I do not love yelling,” he objects, “I love shouting, there’s a difference.”

“Semantics,” Harry mutters, closing the space between them as he dives in for another kiss. He’ll never get enough of this perfect, impossible boy.

They kiss hungrily again, Louis’ fingers entangling in Harry’s curls and knocking his headscarf to the floor, traveling down his neck, shoulders, back, making Harry shiver and grip Louis tighter. Louis’ hands were always so clever, could always hold every little piece of Harry. They hold him so close now, only separating the constant touch of their skin when they're forced to pull apart and catch their ragged breath. Even then, they're left panting out hot puffs of air with their lips still touching, not daring to move any further away. Everything between them is hot now, heavy and syrupy-thick with the promise of what’s to come, and just as Harry is about to get lost in Louis’ fingers tugging in his hair, their hips and tongues moving together so lusciously, he remembers he actually came to do more than confess his love. Something equally as important.

“Wait wait wait wait,” he babbles, their lips separating with a _smack_ as he forces himself to take an immediate step back, away from Louis’ roaming hands. He suddenly feels a little panicky, the headiness of the moment evaporating before him.

Louis looks like he’s about to protest the distance before he notices Harry’s sudden shift in mood. He instantly switches to concern. “Hey,” Louis coaxes, stepping forward cautiously and taking Harry’s wrists in his hands. “Talk to me love, what’s –”

“I’m so sorry, Lou,” Harry whispers urgently, the words tumbling out in a rush. “For everything I said last night, I didn’t mean a word of it. You –” Louis starts shushing him softly, murmuring small comforts, but Harry soldiers on. He needs to get this out before they go any further. “You were right to push me, I never would have figured it out. You were right all along, I was stuck, thinking about things so wrong. You helped me though, you’ve helped me with everything. I love you so much. I loved you the whole time, and I’m so sorry it took me this long to figure it out.”

“It’s okay,” Louis says, pressing tiny, reassuring kisses to Harry’s lips, jaw, cheeks. “It's okay. I forgive you. We’re here now, that’s all that matters. No time like the present. And I’ve got about a million kisses saved up for you now, we’re golden.”

And it might not be enough for tomorrow, but it’s enough for now. Harry nods his head frantically and crashes their lips together again. He hopes Louis never runs out of those kisses. “I love you,” he says again between breaths, just because it feels right. "I love you."

“I love you too,” Louis breathes back.

Harry doesn’t miss the fact that it’s the first time Louis has said those words when he wasn’t also hollering at him. He licks into Louis’ mouth desperately, quickly returning them to the heated pace of before.

Louis whimpers, sharp teeth biting at Harry’s lips. He reels him in closer, the pads of his fingers digging into the soft skin of Harry's hips underneath his shirt. "Want you," he moans.

“ _Yes_ ,” Harry hisses, and that’s all he manages to get out before Louis is walking him backwards in the direction of what he probably assumed was Harry’s bedroom but is actually the end table. Harry lets out a decidedly unsexy squawk as his knees buckle against the table, and he scrabbles to grab at Louis’ shirt so he doesn’t topple over. They both knock into the table as a result, sending Louis’ abandoned tea flying and spilling down the arm of the couch and onto the cushion. Harry and Louis freeze, clutching onto each other’s arms to stay upright. They look at each other, down to the couch guiltily, back at each other, then burst into laughter.

“Aww Lou, c’mon!” Harry whines, disentangling their limbs to pick up the teacup gingerly by its wet handle and place it back on the table. Moving to go retrieve some towels to clean up the mess, Harry's just about to turn away when Louis grabs onto his face, holding both of his heated cheeks in his palms and effectively stopping him in his tracks.

“Harry, I will literally buy us a new couch, can we please just get on with this?” he says, promptly kissing Harry greedily again and palming him through his jeans. And really, who is Harry to argue with that?

They (successfully) move from the living room to the bedroom, breaking apart only to shed layers as they go. They fall into bed, flushed skin together and pressing hard against each other. Harry has seen Louis naked before but never like this, not when he could run his hands over each part of him, mouth at his sharp collarbones, grab handfuls of his bum. In every moment, Harry is completely awestruck by Louis, and love-struck, unable to keep his hands and tongue off of him or the panted endearments behind his lips. They move together perfectly, like they were made for it, made to touch each other, and in the heat where they lay, Harry truly believes that they were.

When the grinding of their hips and the fleeting touches are no longer enough, leaving Louis pleading for more, Harry finally clambers over to the bedside table, rummaging around in the drawer until he uncovers the lube and condoms buried at the bottom with a triumphant, “Aha!” He tosses them onto the bed and pounces on Louis again, bringing their lips together.

It’s only when he feels a trembling hand come up to hold his face that Harry pulls off long enough to find Louis staring back at him, wide-eyed and tense. He immediately slams on the brakes, dropping his hands to Louis’ shoulders, giving him some space.

“Are you -" Harry whispers, studying him carefully. "Are you nervous?”

Louis nods, licking his lips, looking a bit frantic.

“It’s okay, me too, a little,” Harry reassures, and he is. After another pause, he puts forth a tentative, “Have you ever done this before?” A lot of people do wait until they're matched to have sex, but Harry had never thought of Louis one way or the other.

“I mean, I haven’t exactly been _chaste_ ,” Louis hedges. “But I’ve never done this, exactly, no.” He traces his hand down Harry’s arm, the feather-light touch of his fingers raising goosebumbs in their wake. “It just never felt…right.”

Harry’s breath falters. “And this?” he whispers. “This feels right?”

Louis meets his gaze, warm and certain. “Yes,” he replies, and it’s unwavering.

Harry feels like his whole body sighs, melting into Louis again as he steals away more kisses, memorizing each one like it’s the first. “Me too, me too, god I love you,” he babbles between kisses. “Don’t be nervous. Gonna make you feel so good.”

It can never be said that Harry Styles isn’t anything but intensely dedicated to foreplay. He slows down his movements, making each touch or swirl of his tongue or turn of his hips deliberate and maddening, until Louis is loose against the pillows again, his tension diffused into the heady air surrounding them. He opens him up with equal devotion, careful and gentle, and pushes into him slowly, until a frustrated Louis is begging him to _just fuck him already_. Harry is happy to oblige, of course.

It’s a bit clumsy, like any first time can be, but it’s also tender and doting, and charged with the desperation and passion of both months of unresolved feelings and now, their sure, reciprocated, unshakable love. They come down from their high breathing into each other’s mouths, kissing lingeringly and sweetly, only separating long enough for Harry to throw away the condom and fetch them a flannel to wipe themselves down with. Then Louis gathers Harry up in his arms, tucking his knees behind Harry’s, carding his fingers delicately through Harry’s sweaty, tangled hair. And even though he’s bigger, Harry curls up in Louis’ embrace and lets himself be held. He feels so safe, and so loved, and he can’t seem to wipe the tiny, blissful smile off his face.

“Love you,” Harry mumbles, feeling his grip on consciousness slowly loosening. He won’t let himself sleep without saying it again.

“Love you too,” Louis mumbles back sleepily. "So much." He presses one more open-mouthed kiss to the hinge of Harry’s jaw before tucking his face into his neck, breathing out a long, contented sigh, and falling asleep.

> <

They wake up hours later when it’s already dark again, their lengthy nap probably more to make up for their restless night spent apart than as a result of sex-induced exhaustion. Their bodies have spread out across the bed by then, but Louis still has an arm bent across Harry’s shoulders, as if – even unconsciously – he was unwilling to let him out of reach. Harry wakes Louis up with eskimo kisses, his eyes half-lidded and smiling dopily, all of which Louis finds a lot less adorable and a lot more annoying. He grumbles but doesn’t shove Harry away, just locks his arms around him in a vice-like grip so Harry can’t continue.

“Stop it,” he mumbles. “M’sleep.”

“No you’re not,” Harry complains from where his is face trapped against Louis’ chest. “You’re hungry, your stomach growling woke me up.”

Louis doesn’t disagree but he doesn’t move. Harry pats at his belly. “C’mon, we’ve got your favorite cereal in the cupboard…”

Louis peels his eyes open to a squint at that. “A tempting offer,” he says. “You have my attention.”

Once he’s been released, Harry pulls on his fancy robe and tosses Louis some pants, then they both stumble groggily out of the bedroom. The whole house dark, Louis holds on to the belt of Harry’s robe while Harry fumbles along the wall looking for a light switch. When they do finally manage to turn on the lights in the kitchen, Calliope is waiting on the kitchen counter next to her food bowl looking tremendously unimpressed.

“Aw, Cal, did Lou forget to feed you today?” Harry coos, bounding forward to scratch her behind the ears.

“I’m not your bloody catsitter, Harry,” Louis replies tetchily. “I don’t know her feeding schedule.”

Harry scoffs. “Yes you do.”

“Of course I do, idiot. Obviously I fed her,” Louis rolls his eyes. “It’s after dinner now so you should probably feed her again.”

Harry gives Louis a big, adoring smile and helps him get the cereal down from the top shelf he’s trying to reach on his tiptoes, swatting his bum when he walks away. He feeds Calliope her dinner then gets a bowl of cereal for himself, settling in next to Louis at the table. Harry puts the milk in first like he always does and Louis wrinkles his nose in disgust like it’s personally offensive to him. He piles his legs into Harry’s lap anyway.

They eat their cereal in comfortable silence, the sound of spoons scraping against ceramic the only interruption. It’s after Louis has poured himself a second bowl that he clears his throat and says, “So…what are we now?”

Harry hums thoughtfully around a mouthful of cereal, considering it as he chews. “I don’t know. I mean, we’re not soulmates, but ‘boyfriends’ doesn’t sound…strong enough.”

Louis nods in agreement. He scoops more cereal into his mouth.

“Can we just be each other’s?” Harry asks after awhile. “Like, I wanna be yours. I _am_ yours. And you can be mine if, uh, if you want that too.”

Louis beams at him. “Sounds perfect,” he says and leans forward to press a simple, sugar-sticky kiss to his lips. “And of course I’m yours.”

“Good,” Harry mumbles, blushing and smiling wide.

They finish their cereal and then chase each other back into bed, laughing and laughing and picking up right where they left off earlier that afternoon.

> <

The morning breaks without hesitancy, bright beams of sunlight slanting through the blinds and striping the duvet in blinding white. Harry stretches out long and languid, back cracking satisfyingly and body sore, feeling sated and peaceful. He rolls over to find Louis still asleep, duvet draped around his shoulders and his hand tucked up next to his face. Harry doesn’t think there’s much better to wake up to than the sun and his boy. He runs his finger down the bridge of Louis’ nose once, because he can’t help himself, then reaches over him to grab his phone from the nightstand.

He scrolls through every necessary social media site and is just finishing checking the weather when a text buzzes through. It’s from Barbara, so he taps the notification and reads the message: _‘don’t worry about sun morn, i’ll cover for you ;)’_

“Oh my god,” he groans loudly.

Louis, waking up next to him, shifts around to rest his head on Harry’s shoulder. “Whassat?” he mumbles, voice scratchy.

Harry angles the phone so Louis can read the message. Louis seems unfazed, replying drily, “Fantastic news, now we don’t even have to leave this bed until school starts on Monday.”

“Lou,” Harry whines miserably. “There’s a _winky face_. She’s been thinking about us having _sex_.”

Louis frowns, bemused. “We are having sex,” he says.

“No we’re not.”

Louis huffs impatiently. “Well we could be,” he intones saucily, shifting again so his morning wood is now pressing firmly against Harry’s thigh. He raises his eyebrows in invitation.

“If you insist,” Harry smirks, pulling Louis in closer by the waist.

Sometime later, after they’ve showered the last twenty-four hours off and Harry’s responded to Barbara with an appreciative but mortified _‘thank you please don’t ever text me again’_ , Harry finds himself in the sunlit kitchen preparing a full English. He’s whistling What’s New Pussycat as he scrambles eggs and grills tomatoes, Louis sitting idly at the counter reading the newspaper he'd retrieved off the front step. It’s all so very idyllic and domestic that Harry would try to pinch himself out his dream if he wasn’t so boundlessly, buoyantly happy. When the bacon is done frying and their plates have been loaded up, Harry leans over the counter to flick the back of Louis’ paper. Louis lets the top half of it flop over so he can meet Harry’s gaze.

“Food’s done, dear,” Harry chirps, reaching out to run a hand through Louis’ hair.

“Thanks, _honey_ ,” Louis croons back sarcastically.

He hops off the chair to fetch his plate and follows Harry to the couch. They have to sit on the far end of it, away from the side covered in cleaning product and raggedy dishtowels mopping up yesterday’s mishap with the tea. Harry lounges across the middle, propped up on an elbow with his plate balanced on the cushion, legs tangling carelessly with Louis’.

Neither of them even moves when they hear Niall crashing into the house a few minutes later, unannounced.

“Harry!” he shouts, making a ruckus as he kicks off his shoes against the wall and slams the door. “Where are ya! Zayn texted telling me to come over here as soon as I got back in town, said something about needing to have yer head knocked into a wall. Harry!”

“In here, Niall,” Harry calls, not looking up from his food.

Louis frowns over at him. “Why does Niall have a key and I don’t?” he grumbles.

Harry squeezes Louis’ knee. “I’ll get you one made,” he assures. “Right away.”

“What have you done this time?” Niall continues to shout. “I know I haven’t made you talk about it but I think it’s about time we have a real heart-to-heart conversation about Lou – aah!” He cuts himself off with a cry and slaps a hand over his eyes when he comes into the room and finds Harry and Louis sitting half-naked with their breakfasts.

Louis sighs long-sufferingly. “Niall please, we are wearing pants.”

“It smells like sex in here!” Niall protests.

“That would be bacon, Niall,” Harry says.

“Oh,” Niall says, dropping his hand and taking in their entwined seating arrangement. “Hello lads,” he greets with a huge grin. “Apparently you’ve already worked it out.”

Harry and Louis exchange small smiles.

“Yes, all’s well now,” Harry says. “Louis and I are very much in love and we’re never gonna leave each other.” He says it like he’s joking, but his heart thumps assuredly in his chest all the same. He can see Louis holding back a smile next to him.

“Good to hear, good to hear, I knew you’d come ‘round eventually,” Niall says, sounding a little distracted as he eyes their plates. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have any more of that would ya? Long drive back you know...”

“Everything’s still sitting out, feel free to whip some up for yourself,” Harry offers.

“Cheers,” Niall replies and hurries to the kitchen.

A series of clattering sounds along with the occasional curse filter out into the living room soon after but Harry thinks he can trust Niall in his kitchen without supervision. He nicks a half-eaten piece of bacon off Louis’ plate and gets a pinch for it.

“So,” Louis says, munching on a slice of marmalade toast. “Zayn?” he prompts.

Harry feels a flush rising up his neck. “Uhh, yeah,” he laughs nervously. “I erm, went to his place last night? Didn’t spend the night in a ditch, after all. He helped me sort some things out, about you and me.”

“Oh god,” Louis groans. “What did he tell you? It was probably horribly embarrassing and greatly exaggerated. Zayn is a pathological liar, did you know that?”

Harry laughs. “Don’t worry, he didn’t really say much. Just that you talked about me a lot. And that you think I’m _special_ ,” he teases, poking his toe into Louis’ calf.

“Oh, well that’s not so bad then. Zayn can live another day,” Louis declares. Harry giggles and Louis curls his fingers lightly in his hair to regain his attention. “And you are special to me,” he adds, meeting his gaze seriously.

Harry blushes again, not quite sure what to say. He feels like a sunflower, blooming under Louis’ attention and affection. But it’s always been a bit like that, Harry supposes, with him always seeking out Louis’ light – a sunflower turning to face the sun. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

Louis scratches his fingers pleasantly on Harry’s scalp then returns to his toast. “Remind me to thank Zayn next time we see him.”

Harry nods. “Barbara too,” he adds. “She gave me quite the talking to as well.”

“It takes a village, apparently,” Louis smiles. “You’re a stubborn one, Harry Styles, I’ll give you that.”

“No worse than you,” Harry shoots back, a grumpy frown on his face that Louis then has no choice but to kiss off, really. He moves their now-empty plates to the coffee table so he can crawl on top of Harry and join their lips.

They’re looking significantly debauched, Harry's hands halfway down Louis’ pants by the time Niall interrupts them with a dignified clear of his throat. They sit up, chastised, but not sorry for their actions. Niall raises his eyebrows at them then at the incriminating towels occupying the other end of the couch. “And I’m supposed to believe that’s what? Spilled tea?”

Harry and Louis both nod their heads to the side in consideration, not disputing the claim. “Well,” they begin simultaneously.

“Never mind!” Niall cuts in quickly, raising his fork and plate in surrender. He sits down forcibly next to Harry, shoving them both over to make room. “I don’t even want to hear it. I’m trying to eat lunch, not think about you two slapping happies.”

Harry and Louis exchange a disgusted grimace at the euphemism.

“Niall,” Harry says, pressing an insulted palm to his chest. “I don’t know what you’re trying to insinuate. Louis and I simply made love –”

Niall and Louis both groan loudly.

“Do _not_ call it that, Harold,” Louis protests. “You're going to sound like a complete tosser.”

Harry pouts. “I will call it that,” he argues. “And you know why?”

“Why?” Louis challenges. He has that playful glimmer in his eye, like he knows what Harry’s about to say and is going to absolutely delight in it.

Harry leans in close. “Because I _love_ you.”

“Fuck’s sake!” Niall cries, springing up from the couch as Harry and Louis start mouthing at each other again. “I’m going to eat in the kitchen.”

They kiss until they can’t keep themselves from laughing.


	9. Chapter Nine

Harry was sorely mistaken if he thought things would be dramatically different now that he and Louis were together properly. Everything carries on almost exactly as it had before, only with a few more kisses thrown into the mix. As he looks back on the previous months, Harry truly comes to realize how they’d basically been together the whole time, that easy intimacy apparent from the start. They’d fallen together and fallen in love like it was the simplest thing in the world. But that is what it’s like, Harry thinks, being in love with your best friend. Easy as breathing.

It turns out he need not have spent all that time worrying about what would happen when school started either, because their habits don’t change all that much. Since Harry’s house is much closer to the school than his own flat, Louis insists he just keep staying at Harry’s. For the sake of his morning commute, he reasons, a cheeky smile on his face. So Harry still gets to see Louis’ sleeping face every morning when he gets up to go to the bakery, and if that’s not one of the littlest things in the world to love, Harry doesn’t know what is.

On his early morning days when Harry is up hours before Louis needs to be, he slips out of bed silently and tries his best to stay silent. Sometimes though, he still inevitably trips over Louis’ shoes lying in the middle of the floor, or stubs his toe on the door with a curse and wakes Louis up. Harry misses the days when Louis could come to the bakery with him, when he would grumpily stumble out of bed after him and berate him into making tea. But now Harry just leans over to kiss Louis’ sleep-soft mouth, rubbing at his tummy as he says, “Go back to sleep, love. You’ve still got two more hours.” And Louis goes back to sleep with a small smile on his face and the taste of toothpaste on his lips.

The mornings Harry has to be at the bakery for his later shift are even better. He and Louis wake up at the same time then, shocked awake by Harry’s nuclear meltdown alarm. Louis groans every time, shoving Harry out of their sweaty, entwined arms and burying his face into his pillow. Harry laughs and still refuses to change it, telling Louis it’s his own fault for setting it in the first place and he’ll have to figure out Harry’s phone password if he’d like to wake up to something else. (He’d recently changed the password to 1224, Louis’ birthday, after Louis tricked him into telling him the old one).

The wake up is worth it though, when they can begrudgingly crawl out of bed together and get in the shower, kissing slowly under the spray and trading lazy handjobs if they’re feeling particularly motivated that morning. They eat breakfast in their towels and get ready together, elbowing each other for mirror space to do their hair. Louis, having finally cut his summer-long hair, now spends more time than Harry thinks is strictly necessary piling it all up above his forehead in a twisted quiff, or styling it into artfully tousled waves across his forehead. It all looks fantastic on him, though; anything works when you’ve got a bone structure like Louis, Harry thinks, and Harry is happy to admit the whole crafted teacher look gets him more than a little hot. The t-shirts, trainers, and unwashed skinny jeans of the summer are gone, replaced with fancy trousers, cuffed Oxford shirts and ties, and even Harry’s loose jumpers pulled over button-downs. Harry frequently bemoans the fact that he never has enough time to ravish Louis properly in the mornings.

Some days Harry, by habit, wakes up before the alarm even goes off, and it’s those mornings that are his favorite. When he stirs himself into consciousness, often the first thing he feels is Louis, his cold toes on Harry’s ankles, or his hand in his hair, or his fingers tucked under the waistband of Harry’s pants. It’s not sexual, just a hand on his hip, a light grip to keep Harry in holding distance, but it makes Harry’s breath stutter all the same. It fills him with a special sort of heaviness, the loving weight of wanting to be kept close. Harry relishes those last twenty minutes before the alarm, resting in that hazy half-awake state, eyes closed and mind wandering as he lets himself be held – or holds Louis, depending on who had asserted cuddling dominance during the night.

They spend a lot of time in bed when they aren’t sleeping as well - Harry has maybe never been so well fucked in his life. Not that he’s comparing notes or anything, but Harry finds that he and Louis are compatible in a new and addictive sort of way he’s never experienced, perfectly attuned to one another, their desires matching up almost frighteningly well. They both take everything the other can give, making the sex rough and white-hot, electric with hard grips and panted breaths. But at the same time it can also be soft and slow and doting; Louis might tease Harry for calling it “making love” but that doesn’t make it any less true. They’re very generous to one another, spending hours exploring each other’s bodies, Harry finding the place where his palm splays perfectly across Louis’ waist, Louis not leaving an inch of Harry untouched, whispering to each other about their favorite spots they never talked about before – the three freckles forming a tiny triangle on Louis’ left cheek, the spot on Harry’s neck where the springy bits in his hair curl – and kissing them over and over again.

Harry has maybe never laughed so much during sex either. Every misplaced tickle, every awkward fumble has them in giggles, laughing into each other’s mouths until they can’t keep from kissing. Sometimes Harry brings it upon himself too, like the time Louis takes off his pants only to realize they’re patterned in tiny green recycling arrows. Louis laughs until he’s in tears, which makes Harry laugh too. Their giggles don’t stop Louis from throwing the pants over his shoulder and giving Harry the blowjob of the week, however.

There’s also the time Harry decides to tell Louis the joke he’d learned at the bakery earlier that day as they cuddle in a post-orgasm haze.

“Hey, Lou,” he mumbles against Louis’ shoulder, half-asleep as Louis’ fingers trace up and down his spine. “Why do cows have hooves instead of feet?”

“Why?” Louis hums in response, too fucked-out to be aware of what he’s agreeing to hear.

“Because,” Harry replies, biting his lip, “They lactose.”

Louis’ hand stops and he cranes his neck back to give Harry the most deadened glare before shoving him away from where he’s sprawled himself across Louis’ body. Harry holds his belly while he laughs, and he doesn’t miss Louis hiding his own giggles behind the back of his hand too.

Then there’s the time Harry decides to play music during sex. He’d put a lot of effort into crafting the perfect sex playlist, and in the midst of one heated snogging session, Harry resolves it’s finally time to put it to good use. Most of their clothes are gone, there’s obviously only one direction this is heading in, so before it gets too far, he scrambles off Louis to reach for his phone and put the playlist on shuffle. The first notes of [Every Other Freckle](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-mhgfXgwdls) spill from the speakers and Harry turns back to Louis, a wicked grin on his face.

Louis is less enthused. “Harry,” he groans, hiding his face behind his palms. “I am not _fucking_ to _Alt-J_.”

“Aww, Louis,” Harry pouts. “I’ve wanted to since the album came out. Can we, please?” he begs, walking his fingers across Louis’ navel enticingly.

Louis drops his hands to give Harry a disdainful look, but Harry can still see the light dancing in his eyes. Louis heaves a sigh. “Fine,” he relents, put-upon as he rolls over to straddle him again, like it’s some great burden to fuck Harry. The scorching kiss Harry receives tells a different story, however, and he meets it with a laugh and grin, the heavy chords of Alt-J only background noise as he returns all of his attention to Louis.

They laugh, and kiss, and tease, and if they’d turned everything into a competition before they were fucking on the regular, it’s nothing compared to now. Once they’ve learned the littlest ways to turn each other on, it becomes a game, a race to see who will give in first. All day they work each other up with searing kisses and touches loaded with intent, only to back off to leave for work, or to make dinner, or to find literally any other activity to do, leaving the other with a frustrating and often untimely boner. Louis discovers that Harry has the dirtiest mouth in the world, and it’s that combined with the husky voice and bedroom eyes Harry probably practices that usually have Louis breaking first, shoving Harry against a wall or onto the couch to quickly put an end to his smug victory cackles. Louis has never been a very good sport, but he finds that losing this particular game isn’t too bad at all.

Harry and Louis get shameless fairly quickly too, which is unfortunate for their friends who have to bear the brunt of their more exhibitionist tendencies.

“You guys are nasty as fuck,” Zayn remarks with an incredulous shake of his head one night as they’re leaving the club.

They’d all gone out to celebrate Niall’s birthday and had ended up staying out a lot later than expected after Harry and Louis disappeared. They’d eventually found them tripping out of the bathroom, Harry with a flush high in his cheeks, Louis looking positively depraved, still all over each other, utterly satisfied with themselves and unconcerned with having made their friends wait. They couldn’t keep their hands or tongues to themselves on the way home either; it wasn’t the first time they got left behind in a tangled heap on Harry’s couch, and it wouldn’t be the last.

“I hate you so much,” Niall says another day after he’s been sexiled from his own flat. He’d had to creep back in cautiously, like a burglar in his own home, afraid of what he might find still happening on his couch. Luckily for him though, all he’d discovered was Harry in Louis’ lap, loose-limbed with a faraway look in his eyes as Louis cuddled him back to reality. Both of them had even put all of their clothes back on.

“Why couldn’t we have just watched golf in peace?” Niall whines, taking a wary seat on his presumably soiled couch that he’ll now have to replace. “Just once?”

“Sorry, Niall,” Louis replies, not sounding sorry at all. “But it _was_ very boring.”

Harry hums in agreement, still looking a little dreamy where he rests on Louis’ shoulder. “We did put a towel down,” he offers.

Niall snorts. “Thank fuck for that, honestly,” he says.

Even Liam gets involved during one particularly daring FaceTime session.

“I’m very happy you guys are so into each other but I really don’t need to see this,” Liam sputters, immediately turning his phone away as Louis slithers down Harry’s body and disappears offscreen. Harry can’t see his face anymore but he can still imagine Liam’s alarmed expression.

“We _are_ very _into_ each other,” Harry giggles, letting out a wanton gasp that’s more for show than the result of Louis’ mouth on his thighs.

“Ugh,” Liam groans. “Goodbye Harry. Call me back when you’re done.”

So they do spend a lot of time in bed as the weeks grow colder and rainier, but it's not only for sex either. Oftentimes they’re just curled up under the covers watching Gogglebox, or catching Harry up on Breaking Bad. They spend a weekend marathoning the Lord of the Rings trilogy, only leaving bed to fetch snacks or go to the bathroom. They put Harry’s laptop between them and watch YouTube videos until their eyes burn. Louis marks papers while Harry reads or naps or just lies next to him and watches, Calliope resting in the space between their legs. They kiss with no intention of going further, and they hold each other because it feels right to do so. Harry happily returns Louis’ extra blankets to their rightful place in the living room now that he can wrap himself up in Louis instead of the duvet.

They’re friends, and they’re lovers, and they go hand and hand as if one role has never been separate from the other. Easy as breathing.

Slowly, most of Louis’ clothes begin to migrate to Harry’s drawers and closet, his odds and ends mixing with Harry’s every time Louis insists on bringing over his favorite pan for making cheese toasties, or his pirated copy of the second season of Friends (even though Harry owns the box set), or whatever other item Harry’s house fails to provide. Louis’ flat basically becomes a glorified storage space for all of his furniture, and Harry wonders if maybe this shouldn’t happen so fast. But Louis has had a toothbrush in Harry’s bathroom cabinet since June, and Harry starts spending a lot of time thinking about Louis’ lease ending in January and the word “home” scrawled across his arm.

Home begins to feel a lot less like a place that only Harry inhabits, and it’s then that he decides to pull out the worn box from the back of the hall closet. Harry hadn’t kept a lot of Eli’s things, had returned his favorite records and wool jumpers to Eli’s family after he got back from Holmes Chapel and didn’t need a houseful of things that didn’t belong to him. But he did have one banker’s box full of things that had been _theirs_. Nothing extravagant, just sentimental souvenirs from dates or trips they took together, a creased envelope of silly notes and drawings, a photo album, a scarf, a beaded bracelet. Simple things that sometimes, when he had felt like he needed it, Harry could sort through and remember.

Harry hasn’t gone through the box in a long while though, and looking through it now brings with it a strange sense of déjà vu, a stale sort of nostalgia. The pieces of Eli Harry keeps are still important, little treasures that still have happiness inside, but it’s the act itself that feels off. Harry thinks of Eli often, knows he’ll never forget him, knows that a piece of his heart will always be Eli’s, but it’s the sifting through these items that Harry doesn’t need anymore. He feels settled now, all of the memories combined into a single, distant period of his life instead of appearing as clear and distinct episodes. Time has passed, and Harry doesn’t need the cues any longer.

He’s on the floor in the living room, the banker’s box open and empty picture frames spread around him when Louis arrives at the house after school. Harry hears him come in and dump his messenger bag in the kitchen, feels him approach cautiously when he enters the living room and spots Harry on the floor.

“Hey,” Louis greets hesitantly, crouching behind Harry to see what he’s looking at. “You alright, love?”

“Yeah,” Harry nods. “Just putting a few things away.”

Louis frowns when he recognizes the frame from Harry’s dresser and a few of the others he’d spotted around the house, all empty now. He watches as Harry carefully slips the photographs of Eli into the open spaces of a photo album, next to some of the pictures Louis last remembered seeing on the fridge.

“Harry, you know these don’t bother me right?” he asks, concerned. “You don’t forget someone like Eli and I would never expect you to. These are your memories and you don’t need to hide them away for me.”

“I know,” Harry reassures, meeting Louis’ worried gaze and smiling softly. “I’m not hiding them, just making a little more room, that’s all. Don’t worry, Lou.” He’d still left a couple pictures up around the house, and Eli’s globe and books still sat on the bookshelf. Harry wasn’t trying to erase anything - he was creating a space to share.

Louis nods with a small smile, pressing a kiss to Harry’s cheek and squeezing his shoulder before going to gather his bag and leaving Harry to his box of memories. The significance was not lost on him.

> <

Soon autumn arrives in full, and with it comes a snap of cold, dry air and blistering winds, with crimsoned leaves falling to the ground after every shudder of the trees. It also comes with kisses that taste like sweet red wine or cider stirred with cinnamon sticks, with the new alien and crossbones socks Harry buys Louis so he’ll stop pressing his freezing toes into his thighs, with potted plants moved into the kitchen to escape the frost, and with gloved hands clasped together.

Autumn means Harry and Louis fighting over the proper temperature to set the thermostat, and huddling under quilts for warmth and wearing them like capes around the house after Harry wins the argument with a convincing case on energy efficiency. Autumn means Louis picking up Harry from work when the roads are too icy for his bike. Autumn means Louis lying on his back on top of the bakery counter to wait for him, feet dangling above the floor while Harry mops, lowering bites of the crumb buns Harry saves for him into his mouth. Autumn means Harry having a permanent lovebite on the underside of his jaw, on what Louis calls his sweet spot, because the soft sucks and bites he places there make Harry weak at the knees and because it always still smells of sweet rolls from the bakery when Louis comes home and tucks his face into Harry’s neck, warming up his wind-bitten nose.

Autumn also means driving to Holmes Chapel for Harry’s mum’s birthday, which is why Harry finds himself in the passenger seat of Louis’ car now, feet resting on the dashboard, toes leaving smudges on the windshield that Louis keeps sighing over. They have a whole weekend in Holmes Chapel ahead of them, and Harry gets a nervous thrill in his stomach every time he thinks about it. Louis has never met his family apart from exchanged hellos over telephone calls, and Harry’s been buzzing for it to finally happen for weeks.

“I swear, you’re more anxious to see your parents than I am,” Louis remarks, reaching over to hold Harry’s hand and still his fidgeting fingers.

“Gemma will be there too,” Harry points out. “And I’m not anxious, just excited.”

Louis glances away from the road to smile at Harry. “Me too.”

Harry’s comment is a lot less true when they finally pull up to the door of his childhood home, his heartbeat picking up in his chest as he takes a shaky step out of the car. He knows there’s really nothing to worry about, that his family already knows about Louis – that they’re certain to love him because who doesn’t love Louis? – but it doesn’t stop Harry from feeling the pressure of the whole situation regardless. There’s just something inherently stressful about introducing someone new to your family, Harry thinks. He wants it to be perfect, to have all of the people in the world he cares about most care for each other too. He doesn’t even notice his teeth worrying at his bottom lip until Louis comes up to him and plucks it out of his mouth.

“ _Relax_ , Haz,” he stresses, pecking a kiss on that bottom lip and handing Harry his bag.

Harry nods and rolls his shoulders, shaking off his nerves and feeling a little silly for being nervous over his own family in the first place. “C’mon,” he laughs, picking up Louis’ hand and guiding him to the door.

Inside, they’re greeted by the same vanilla scent of home Harry’s always known, the smell of a roast and potatoes in the oven, and three faces peering into the hallway that brighten when they catch sight of the boys.

“My baby’s home!” Anne cries, rushing forward and enveloping Harry in a very firm hug.

“Hi mum,” Harry chuckles, dropping Louis’ hand and his duffel to squeeze his mum back. He breathes in the sweet smell of her perfume that lingers behind her ear, her hair tickles at his cheek, and it feels like home.

When he’s finally released from her clutches, Harry is immediately wrapped in another, even more crushing hug as Gemma bounds forward and snakes her slender arms around him. “Look who finally decided to show his face!” she crows in his ear. “What’s it been, six years now?”

“Ha ha. Try six months,” Harry retorts. He tilts his neck back to get a better look at her. “Your hair is purple.”

Gemma snorts. “Yeah, well, you tend to _miss_ a lot of things when you never visit, you wanker,” she replies frostily. The insult doesn’t really stick when she only hugs him tighter and murmurs into his shoulder, “Missed _you_ a lot, little brother.”

Harry makes a supreme effort to not get choked up but his voice quavers nonetheless. “You too,” he whispers back. He really ought to get home more often than he has in the past; he had missed this more than he even realized. Gemma lets go after another moment so Harry can hug Des, then the three of them are all stepping aside and looking at Harry expectantly.

“Well?” Anne prompts gently with a twinkle in her eye, gesturing to Louis. “Who’s this?” She knows who he is, of course, but would never want to spoil the classic introduction scene, or put an early end to Harry’s discomfort.

“Oh,” Harry laughs awkwardly, turning to find Louis waiting behind him, an amused expression on his face after having witnessed the entire reunion. Harry drapes an arm over his shoulders and pulls him forward. “So, guys. This is, uh…this is my Louis.”

Louis gives a small wave. “Hello, it’s –” he begins, and that’s all he manages to get out before Anne coos excitedly and scoops him up into a big embrace.

“It’s _so_ good to finally meet you, Louis,” she says fiercely, swaying them gently, cradling the back of his neck in her hand in that comforting, motherly way.

Harry watches as Louis relaxes in her arms, bringing his own arms up to hug her back, and all of Harry’s tension fades away. It’s a relief to see – and not an all that surprising one either, not after Jay had welcomed Harry into her home in much the same way in June. Not when, while visiting the Tomlinsons two weeks ago, Jay had pulled Harry away from the lemon-herb asparagus he was preparing to hold him tight and tell him, “You’ve always felt like family to us and it’s a gift to have you now, Harry,” after she’d cottoned on to the change in his and Louis’ relationship status. It’s so easy for them to fit in with each other’s families because that’s what he and Louis are, Harry thinks, in the simplest, most belonging sense of the word. Family.

It’s a whirlwind from there, Des tugging Louis from a handshake into a hug and Gemma doing the same sort of shouting-and-squeezing routine she’d pulled on Harry, then Anne is ushering them all into the dining room with a flurry of hands. Dinner turns into a verbose affair as the other Styleses attempt to extract any and every detail from Louis about his life, shooting questions back and forth across the table. Harry mostly just sits by with a grin on his face and watches, adding in information as he deems necessary and holding Louis’ knee through the interrogation. Not that Louis seems to mind it, of course, going into full dramatics now that he has a brand new audience to regale. He’s magnetic and attentive and he makes Harry’s family laugh and he helps clean up when dinner’s over, moving around the kitchen among the four of them like he _belongs_ and Harry is so, so in love.

After the dishes are done they all sit back down with beers or glasses of wine and keep talking, never running out of things to say or questions to ask or new ways to embarrass Harry. Louis and Gemma get along maybe a little _too_ well in Harry’s opinion, and it’s their banter that takes a particularly damaging toll on his ego. They’re cut from the same fond and sarcastic cloth, never ones to miss out on a light ribbing when they can, but Harry wouldn’t deny that it makes him feel warm and loved, especially when Gemma sends him cheeky winks across the table and Louis presses kisses to his cheek after each tease. Harry’s face stays flushed all evening – though it’s hard to say whether that’s from the bottle of wine he finishes with Anne or his own humiliation – and his cheeks are achy from the amount of laughing and smiling he’s done. Eventually they all disperse for the night, and Harry falls back onto his childhood bed feeling whole and happy, the “he’s perfect, baby,” his mum whispered in his ear when she’d hugged him goodnight repeating in his head like a favorite song.

Harry is lying there, savoring the warmth of it all, gazing up at the field of glow-in-the-dark stars still tacked on his ceiling when Louis calls from the bathroom across from his bedroom door, “Babe, did you pack my toothbrush?”

Harry sighs. “No, I told you to do it. I even reminded you. Twice.”

“No, see, I’m certain you were in charge of bathroom supplies.”

“Nope,” Harry replies. Louis is the worst packer Harry has ever known. They hardly go anywhere without having to turn around at least once to go back and get something he’d forgotten. Harry refuses to do it all for him, though. Louis needs to learn the error of his ways.

“Can I just borrow yours then?” Louis calls again.

Harry pulls a face. “Ew, no! That’s gross, Lou.”

Louis appears in the doorway, apparently just to show Harry how utterly apathetic he is toward his answer. “Darling,” he says, deadpan. “You’ve literally had your tongue inside my arsehole and you’re getting worked up about a toothbrush right now?”

Harry jerks upright on the bed, his jaw dropping. “ _Louis_ ,” he hisses, scandalized. “We are in my _parents’_ house!”

Louis rolls his eyes. “They’re asleep downstairs. Although if you want me to I can –”

“Oh my god,” Harry interjects before Louis can even finish the thought. “Yes, you can use my toothbrush, Jesus Christ.”

“Thanks, love,” Louis says with a winning smile, flouncing back to the bathroom. Harry is so, so in love. And is also considering just keeping a spare toothbrush in his duffel now, for his own sake.

> <

They spend the day of Anne’s birthday seeing the sights around the village, wandering in and out of shops and boutiques, stopping for drinks and small plates to share whenever they happen upon a restaurant. Louis and Anne link arms and chat happily as Harry browses through the shops, offering him advice on the patterned tops he deliberates over and picking out items for him – usually the boldest or sheerest they can find – as they wander around the racks together. The three of them sit on fitting room floors and play stylist for Gemma as she tries to pick out a dress for an upcoming bachelorette party, Harry and Louis sniff lots of fancy soaps in the shop Anne drags them into, they sneak away to buy Anne the watch she’d been eying as a birthday present, and Louis generally has a great time watching Harry in his natural habitat, hanging off his mum’s arm, whispering puns in Gemma’s ear until she pushes him into the street, and greeting almost every person he passes like a close personal friend. Harry also touches more baby bumps than Louis ever could have predicted.

Instead of returning to the car with Gemma and Anne once they’ve run out of shops, the boys insist on walking home so Harry can give Louis a proper tour. It’s like a journey through Harry’s upbringing as they stroll around town hand in hand, Harry pointing out all of the familiar places and recounting some story associated with each as they go. His primary school, the brick wall he’d chalked his name onto three years ago – where the pointed lines of the ‘RRY’ are still visible in the right light – the park with the creek where he and his friends had drank a handle of vodka when they were sixteen (which had ended as charmingly as one might’ve expected), the store where he buys all of his scented candles, the bridal shop he’d bought his prom tux from, the home of the old lady who’d tailored it for him after he had a growth spurt, and so on. Louis can so easily envision a bright-eyed teenage Harry running amok through the village, dimpling at townsfolk and getting himself into and out of trouble, and he can’t help but feel utterly charmed by Holmes Chapel, and even more so by Harry.

They shove each other on the sidewalks like they’re teenagers again, exchange kisses tucked away in corners, and Louis, never one to be outdone, also backs Harry up against the tree where he’d received his first kiss and snogs him senseless. By the time they get back to the house, Harry’s pretty much spent. He manages to lose Louis somewhere between the bathroom and the pantry but Harry can’t bring himself to do more than stretch out across the length of the couch and drift off to the sound of the football game Des has left on in the background. Falling asleep in front of the telly is one of Harry’s favorite at-home pastimes and he’s been known to stay there for hours, so Harry sincerely hopes Louis will be able to entertain himself without him. Anne and Gemma are always up for a round of Scrabble, so he figures it won’t be too hard...

When he wakes up a mess, Harry knows it had been a good nap. He’s covered in sweat, his hair tangled and shirt twisted halfway around his body, and he still feels leaden as he slowly stirs awake. He blinks the sleep out of his eyes to find the living room dark already, the flickering blue of the telly throwing the room into garish relief, the pink glow of the sunset just barely filtering in through the windows, but there’s still enough light for Harry to make out Louis’ lax, snoozing face only a few inches from his own. Louis has himself wedged in the small space between the back of the sofa and Harry’s chest, a leg thrown over Harry’s knees and an arm around his waist to keep Harry from falling off the edge. Someone had placed a blanket over the both of them at some point, so it’s no wonder Harry woke up sweaty after they slept all tangled and tucked in together. Harry smacks his lips with a smile, stretching out his heavy limbs and wrapping them around Louis to snuggle closer. His mouth is cracked and dry and puffy with sleep, but he presses a few kisses to Louis’ neck anyway. Louis makes a small noise of protest and stirs.

“Mmph,” he grunts, scrunching his neck into his shoulder to keep Harry from tickling it further.

“Good morning,” Harry replies, voice grumbly and sleep-rough. He lifts his face to kiss Louis’ cheek once. “Or evening, I suppose.”

“Love your family,” Louis rasps back in lieu of a greeting, wiping a little drool from the side of his lips with the back of his hand. “They gave me lots of margaritas.”

Harry chuckles softly as he meets Louis’ bleary gaze. “Oh yeah, I forgot about birthday margaritas.”

“You really missed out Hazza, but they made me very sleepy.”

“Even better for me,” Harry says, nosing at Louis’ cheek. “Because I love waking up next to you.”

Louis sighs happily. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Harry murmurs, then tilts Louis’ face up so their lips meet.

They maybe get a little too fresh for Harry’s parents’ couch, tongues licking slowly into each others’ mouths, hands roaming under shirts, but they’re interrupted before things get too heated by Gemma barging into the room and flicking on all of the lights.

“This is disgusting,” she announces, reaching over them precariously to switch on the end table lamp. Harry places a final, chaste peck on Louis’ lips and they both roll over onto their backs, laughing.

“What’s up Gems?” Harry greets, arranging his arm around Louis’ shoulders to lie comfortably.

“Oh nothing, we’re all just waiting for you lazy sods to get up to cut the cake,” Gemma replies curtly, standing above them with her hands on her hips. “Cute as kittens you two are, all curled up around each other, but I’ve had enough.”

“Thanks,” Louis smirks. “We are pretty cute.”

Harry flutters his eyelashes and Gemma turns on her heel, leaving with a huff. Harry and Louis roll themselves off the couch to follow soon after.

They all sing happy birthday in the loudest, most obnoxious voices they can, Anne blows out her candles, and they dig into the cake eagerly. It’s red velvet – Anne and Harry’s favorite – made with love by Harry and frosted admirably by Louis. Anne opens her gifts and pretends not to get misty eyed over them, then they all shuffle into the living room and crowd onto the couch together to watch home videos – Anne’s choice, of course.

Harry gets to relive baby baths, Easter egg hunts with Gemma, his year seven school musical (which includes his Elvis impersonation), swimming lessons, every pratfall he took on their family ski trip, and really begins to wonder why some of this footage even exists. They’re horribly embarrassing whether Harry remembers them happening or not, but Louis just laughs and pets his hair through all of his mortified groaning.

“I love this,” Louis declares, wiping away tears as the thirty minute tape of eight-year-old Harry failing at gymnastics lessons finally rolls to an end.

Even Harry has to admit that one was funny, especially when Anne’s muffled laughter was loud enough to be heard in the background of the entire video. Mostly Harry’s just glad he’ll never have to bring another boy home to suffer through naked baby photos and home videos with ever again. It’s grueling.

Harry excuses himself to go shower before they can rope him into sitting through another tape, fleeing up the stairs away from Gemma and Louis’ hands grabbing to hold him down. He takes his time in the shower in hopes that the novelty of the videos will have worn off by the time he’s finished, rinsing and repeating and even drying the shower walls when he’s done like his mum always asks him to. When he’s finally sneaking back down the steps, the house is blessedly quiet and bedroom doors have been closed. He lets out a silent sigh of relief as he rounds the corner, but pauses before moving into the kitchen when he hears quiet voices coming from the living room. He recognizes them as Louis’ and his mum’s, and Harry knows he shouldn’t eavesdrop but can’t quite help himself.

“…need to know if this is serious for you as it is for him,” Harry hears Anne say, and his breath catches. “Without the marks I know how things might be difficult, but Harry is in this for you, Louis, completely. He gives so much of himself away and I –”

“Harry means the world to me,” Louis interrupts softly. There’s the sound of a light rustling, like that of a sleeve being pushed up. “See? But it’s not even about this, just like I’ve told him. Harry is…he’s everything, you know? He’s my best friend, and I love him very…deeply. More than I ever thought I could.”

“I just feel like I have to be ready to pick up the pieces again if it stops,” Anne murmurs.

“It won’t, Anne. I swear,” Louis replies emphatically. “Me and Harry, we’ve got each other. It’s not just me holding on ‘cause he’s my match, and not just him looking for something after Eli, it’s just us. Together. It might not be…conventional, but it feels right. Too good to let go of. And we’re both too stubborn to let anything happen anyway.”

Anne chuckles delicately. “You’re a wonderful boy, Louis,” she says after a pause. “You’re so good to him, and good _for_ him, but -”

Harry should not be listening to this. He rushes to the kitchen before he can hear any more, filling his glass of water and tiptoeing back up the stairs to his bedroom before anyone can realize he’d been there at all. He crawls under the covers, turning the words he’d heard over and over in his head as he stares at wall across from him. Harry hadn't even realized his mum was having doubts about his relationship, but how could she not when he and Louis have such a tenuous connection, defying all that their world has taught them? Of course she’d be concerned after Harry’s already experienced such a great loss before, after everyone spent a year putting him back together.

But Louis is another piece of him now. Harry knows that people aren’t divided into halves, that he’s an entire whole with or without a soulmate. That people can become a part of you but don’t _complete_ you. And Louis _is_ a part of him, one he’d never be willing to give up, whether Harry has his mother’s approval or not. He’s not much of a fighter, but – like Louis said – what Louis is to him is too good to let go of, and too good to not fight for.

Harry lies there, stewing silently, until Louis slips into the room with a smile on his face. He strips down to his pants and gets into bed with Harry, immediately gathering him up in his arms. Harry wriggles back closer into Louis’ hold, bending his knees around Louis’.

“Thank you for taking me home with you,” Louis whispers, lips brushing the back of Harry’s neck. Apparently the conversation with Anne had not been as dire as Harry imagined. “Love you.”

Harry hums and links his fingers with Louis’ where they rest against on his tummy. “Everything alright?” he can’t help but ask.

Louis kisses Harry’s jaw, gentle against the perpetual lovebite. “Perfect.”

Harry feels his unease melt out of him, soothed away by Louis’ embrace. “Me too.”

> <

Harry tries not to let what he overheard worry him. Whatever was said obviously doesn’t bother Louis, who seems happier than ever, so Harry attempts to put the entire conversation out of his mind. It’s the small comment his mother made about the tattoos that continues to linger though, especially as Harry begins to notice the amount of attention Louis pays to the ship on his arm. Harry always loved the concept of the soulmate tattoos, even if he never put much emphasis on his own. They were nice to see, yes, but Harry had relished the feeling and the certainty of the soulmate matches more than the marks themselves. For Louis though, who never had that certainty that he’d actually get to _have_ his soulmate, perhaps they meant more.

“I wish I had one for you,” Harry says one night as they’re lying in bed, Louis draped across his chest and gently tracing over the lines of the ship.

“It’s okay,” Louis replies with a shrug. “I don’t mind sharing.”

Of course he doesn’t. Louis has never been anything less than perfect about the whole situation. Harry desperately wishes he could give as much to Louis as he gives him, even if Louis insists that he couldn’t ask for anything else. Anne had said that Harry was completely in this for Louis and he is, but Harry can’t help but long for more to show for it. Even something as simple as a tattoo, something that most people are just given. That’s when the idea hits him.

Harry grabs Louis’ hand, stopping his brushing fingers. Louis meets his gaze curiously. “But what if you didn’t have to?”

That’s how Harry and Louis end up in Tom and Lou’s kitchen on a Saturday afternoon, Lux on Louis’ lap while Tom prepares what he’s described to Harry during many bakery visits as a “tattoo gun”. It has more parts than Harry can keep track of and looks vaguely threatening with its glinting stainless steel and pointy ends. Harry gulps audibly when he sees Tom insert the needle and Louis laughs at him from across the room.

“Laugh it up,” Harry grumbles, shooting him a deadly look. “You’re next.”

Louis chuckles again, raising his and Lux’s hands he’s holding in defense. “This was your idea.”

Tom seats himself across from Harry with a pair of rubber gloves and a tiny cup of dark ink, grinning at him with an ominous twinkle in his eye. “You ready?”

“Uhh…yes?” Harry can feel more and more of his confidence leeching away as the seconds pass.

“Why are you asking me?”

“Yes, I’m ready,” Harry says, more firmly. “Just, um. What is this going to feel like?”

The soulmate tattoos were natural and painless, closer to birthmarks than what Tom had decorating his arms. Somehow though, with the size of the needle he’s now staring down, Harry doesn’t think this tattoo will be quite the same. He glances at the designs peeking out from under Tom’s sleeves for reassurance. Where Tom usually got nasty, disapproving looks for his countless tattoos, Harry had always been endlessly fascinated by them. They’re a taboo thing, the kind of markings he has. It’s against the law to cover up or alter the given soulmate tattoos, and not very many people ever venture to get any additional ones either. There are only a handful of trained tattoo artists in the entire country, and Harry just so happens to know one of them.

“Well it’s hard to describe really,” Tom replies. “Nothing else feels quite like it. I would say it’s no worse than a cat scratch though, just lasts a little longer.”

That’s fine. Calliope scratches Harry all the time, he can definitely handle this. With a shaky breath, Harry nods and presents Tom with his left wrist, already shaved and disinfected and marked with the stencil.

Harry flinches at the first drag of the needle but quickly settles into the buzzing drone of the tattoo machine and the constant, vibrating sting of the needle. It makes his head a little fuzzy but Harry finds that he likes it, watching with wide eyes as the arms and crown of the anchor begin to take shape on his wrist. Harry doesn’t understand how Tom can even see what he’s doing with the amount of ink pooling on his skin, yet each swipe of the paper towel reveals more of the anchor formed, dark and bold against his skin.

“Y’alright, love?” Louis asks when Harry winces, the needle pulling across the jut of his wrist bone.

Harry looks up to catch Louis’ eyes. “Pretty good actually,” he says. “It’s not bad at all.”

Louis nods his head and gives him an encouraging smile. When the tattoo is finished shortly after, Tom wipes it down with disinfectant again and Harry promptly passes his phone to Louis to take a picture. Harry poses with his tongue out, holding a thumbs-up by his face to flash the new tattoo. He posts it to Instagram with the caption “anchor management.”

“Really Haz?” Louis groans when he reads the notification. “That is horrible.”

“Shut up,” Harry grins. “Go sit on the stool.”

Harry is equally enraptured watching Louis get his tattoo done as he was with his own. They hadn’t spent a lot of time deciding on what to get, immediately agreeing on sticking with the nautical theme they already had and placing the tattoos on their marked arms, for continuity. The rope is gorgeous where it weaves around Louis’ wrist, and Harry can’t help but feel a heady, fluttery feeling as the weight of what they’re doing sinks in. Louis seems to realize too, meeting Harry’s heavy stare with equal significance, eyes dark and filled with meaning. He presses the palm that isn’t pinned to the table to his heart, his gaze never leaving Harry.

Harry is out of his seat as soon as the tattoo is finished, reaching for Louis and meeting him halfway there, their parted lips crashing together. He can hear Tom discretely going about cleaning the table and packing away his things but Harry couldn’t care less in that moment, lost in Louis’ warm mouth on his own and thumbs brushing at his cheeks.

“I love you so much,” Harry whispers when they finally split apart, only far enough for them to break into identical grins, their lips still grazing.

“Love you too,” Louis replies, his fingers toying with the wispy curls on the back of Harry’s neck. “This was a great idea.”

Harry giggles, kissing him fiercely again before separating their lips and gently putting some distance between them. “Come on, come on,” he chuckles when Louis chases after his mouth, fingers gripping and tickling his sides. “Stop, Lou! I have to take another picture!”

Louis begrudgingly obeys, backing off with an ornery grumble, like it’s the trial of his life to have to stop touching Harry. Harry positions their hands so their wrists are in line, spins them both in a half circle until the lighting is to his liking, then snaps the photo. This one he captions “tied up like two ships” and Louis has no mockery to offer this time, only another burning kiss.

At home, they take the bandages off as soon as it’s safe to do so, then take off each other’s clothes too, slowly and carefully in the fading twilight of their bedroom. Drunk on feeling, everything moves in slow motion, golden and unfocused around the edges. They come with each other’s names ghosting past their lips, and Harry wants to shout Louis’ name from rooftops too, just so everyone will know that he can call this boy his, that he’s Louis’ and that together, they’re like lightning. Their bond, their love had always felt permanent to Harry, even before he knew what it meant, but now, as their hands interlock and the rope and anchor align, it’s as permanent and undeniable as a soulmate match.

“I adore you,” Louis says later when they’re lying together, still messy and tangled under the sheets. He kisses the side of Harry’s nose, fingers stroking at the thin, pale purple skin under his eye. “I’m never gonna let you go.”

“Good,” Harry drawls, smiling at him dopily. He wraps his fingers around Louis’ forearm, lifting his hand off his face and turning it around so the rope is facing Louis. “’Cause baby, you’ve got me tied down,” he croons.

“Don’t call me baby,” Louis grouses, wiggling closer and circling his arms around Harry’s waist – Harry loves it when Louis gets all handsy and squirmy after sex. “You’re _my_ baby.”

“Goes both ways, Lou.”

“Yeah, well,” Louis decides to humor him and doesn't argue any further. Instead, he grabs Harry’s wrist and brings it up to his face to examine it closer. He smooths his finger around the edges of the anchor, tracing around it but not touching the raised, sensitive skin. His touches quickly devolve into gentle strokes up and down Harry’s entire arm as Harry purrs contentedly and stretches it out in demand of pets. He’s snuffling soft snores into Louis’ neck soon after. Louis shakes his head at him fondly; Harry’s pillow talk is always atrocious. Louis just kisses his hand and pulls it around himself, cuddling up in Harry’s arms and following him to sleep.

> <

Winter holds its icy breath just long enough for all of the boys to get together one last time before they separate for the holidays, when Liam crashes on Harry’s couch on his way home to Holmes Chapel. There’s snow in the forecast but the five of them still can’t pass up the opportunity to make it to the park for one final match before their field disappears entirely.

It’s possibly the last nice day of the year, just above freezing, but Harry still digs out mismatched gloves, beanies, and his entire collection of coats to bundle everyone up in before they go. The sun shines weakly through the clouds, the boys’ breath fogs into the cool air around them as they sprint across the pitch, and Harry’s nice coats are quickly abandoned and strewn across the ground, much to his displeasure. The five of them chase each other up and down the field, running themselves ragged, wiping their dripping noses on their sleeves as their dirty trainers squelch in the mud. Harry can’t help but sneak Louis a few quick kisses whenever they cross paths too, just because he looks so cute with his pink, wind-bitten cheeks. Zayn, Niall, and Liam pretend to be disgusted between their grins, only teasing them a little because they’re too happy to see their best friends happy to give them a good roasting.

Harry manages to slip-slide through the muddy grass for an entire half of the game before he succeeds in injuring himself. Ironically, he’s just thinking he ought to buy a real pair of boots when his feet go flying out from under him, his ankle twisting painfully as he goes down. He hears the other four cry out dramatically as they see him fall and land flat on his back, his head thumping against the ground. They all immediately rush to his aid, dropping to their knees next to where Harry’s lying, dazed.

“Ow,” he frowns up at their shocked faces.

Niall looks like he’s barely holding back laughter. “You fell a bit there, Haz,” he says.

“Thank you, Niall,” Louis replies shortly, running his hands all over Harry to make sure he’s not been irreparably damaged.

“Can you move your legs? Are you concussed? How many fingers am I holding up?” Liam asks.

“Four,” Harry responds dutifully. He tries to sit up, only to be forced back onto the ground by Zayn’s firm hand.

“Don’t move!" he cries. "Something might be broken."

“I think I just twisted my ankle guys, really,” Harry says, which they ignore. With the organization of a team of trained paramedics, they each grab a limb and chair carry him off to the side of the field.

“Honestly,” he intones more forcefully after they set him down, none too gently. “I’m fine, you can keep playing.”

“We can’t play without you!” Liam argues.

“Sure you can, I wasn’t doing much more than providing comic relief anyway,” Harry says. They all eye him skeptically. “I’m serious! It’s nice out – don’t waste it.”

They continue to fawn over him until Harry slaps at their hands and sends them away. He also has to accept a kiss, then another one, to get Louis to leave. Harry smacks him on the bum as he trots back to the field.

“Cheeky,” Louis smirks.

Harry finds spectating football to be both a lot safer and a lot more personally satisfying for him, though that might just be because Louis is wearing particularly form-fitting joggers today and Harry can shamelessly ogle his bum. He referees from his seat at the edge of the pitch, shouting whenever he thinks anyone is offside, ordering free kicks when they’re probably not necessary, and generally making up a lot of arm gestures as he goes.

“You’re throwing some pretty crazy shapes there, mate,” Liam calls over his shoulder when he sees Harry waving his arms around wildly in the air.

While Liam’s watching Harry and laughing, Louis takes the opportunity to kick the ball away from him with an especially nasty slide tackle, which sends Liam careening into a patch of mud, limbs flailing. Before anyone even has a chance to worry about another injury, they both quickly spring up from the ground. Louis launches himself after the ball, scores, then turns around to point and laugh at Liam.

“Dive!” Harry jeers at Liam, snickering along with Niall and Zayn. He’s not a very unbiased referee.

Liam advances on Louis with a snarl. “You’re a first class knob,” he growls when he reaches him, gripping Louis’ wrists in his hand to stop his pointing.

“How very kind, Liam,” Louis simpers, batting his eyelashes right in Liam’s stony face. “You’re just a standard knob, so it looks like I’m the winner again.”

“That move would’ve gotten you a red card.”

“Well, I’ll just see myself off then,” Louis agrees, shaking himself out of Liam’s hold and sashaying off the field to where Harry is still on the ground, cackling.

“Nice,” Harry grins up at him, slapping the hand Louis offers for a high five.

“Did you see his back?” Louis crows as he drops down next to Harry, hooking an arm around his neck. “Covered in mud.”

“I’ll wash it for him,” Harry shrugs. Harry will be more than happy to clean up Louis’ messes for the rest of his life.

Louis kisses his cheek adoringly. “Ankle okay?” he asks, brushing his fingers through Harry’s hair, pushing the wind-blown bits away from his face.

“Twinges a bit,” Harry replies, “But I think I’ll live. Will you give me a piggy back ride home though?”

“’Course I will,” Louis scoffs, like he had already been planning to anyway.

The game kind of falls apart after that, devolving into general roughhousing among Niall, Zayn, and Liam, with Harry and Louis heckling them from the sideline. Eventually Liam gives up his grudge and gives Louis a particularly ferocious noogie, so Harry knows all is well.

The temperature begins to drop when the sun starts to go down, hiding itself behind the flat, grey clouds promising snow. Harry should be freezing sitting on the cold ground, wearing only a hoodie to keep him warm, but as he watches Zayn run down the field carrying Liam bridal style in his arms, and sees Niall rolling around on the ground howling with laughter, and with Louis holding him around the waist, tucking him into his side and giggling into his shoulder, Harry doesn’t feel cold at all. Not even a little bit. He feels warm; his heart is full, and he feels whole. Harry smiles as the snow begins to fall.


	10. Epilogue

The refrigerator door is like a perfect time capsule, Harry decides as he stares at the fridge, leaning back against the kitchen counter, waiting for the kettle to boil. Having naturally collected so much clutter over the years, it’s now a perfect display of the passage of time. The whole front of it is covered in photographs and receipts and old grocery lists, all held together by mismatched magnets, the make-a-sentence ones strung together into lines of crude poetry.

There’s the picture of Harry with his hair straightened from the day Louis moved in, when they’d found an old flat iron hidden in the back of the bathroom cupboard. He looks ridiculous, Harry much prefers his curls, but Louis had had a great time straightening his hair and telling him he looked like an elf.

There’s pictures from their trip to Courchevel, where Louis finally taught Harry how to ski. There’s the ticket stubs from the concert they just went to at The Apollo, and from the National Gallery when Louis took Harry there for his twenty-fourth birthday. There’s a handful of pictures from each of the New Year’s Eve parties they’ve hosted over the last three years, blurry snapshots of their charmingly inebriated friends and family members, and one of Harry and Louis asleep on top of each other before the clock had even struck 2016.

There’s the strips of photobooth prints from Zayn and Perrie’s wedding, frames upon frames of the five boys trying to fit into the booth together, of Harry and Niall pulling faces and turning their bums to the camera, of Zayn, Liam, and Louis stroking their beards and throwing up obscene hand gestures, and of Harry and Louis, pouting at the camera and grinning at each other and kissing like they forgot their photo was being taken at all. The last frame on one of the strips is actually Harry’s favorite picture of the two of them. They’re facing each other in it, leaning away toward the edges of the photo with their eyes scrunched up painfully and mouths wide as they cry with laughter, their clasped hands a blur between them. Harry doesn’t even remember what was so funny, but the picture never fails to make him smile.

Looking at it all, somehow it doesn’t feel like a lot has changed over the years. Harry still loves Louis with an intensity that takes his breath away, and he still feels like the luckiest guy in the world, like he’s getting away with something truly special being the one who gets to kiss Louis Tomlinson every single day. Really, the only thing that has changed is the number of tattoos on their bodies; after the anchor and rope, they found that they couldn’t really help themselves from getting more. Their friends make fun of them and call them saps for the number of matching pairs they now have, but Harry and Louis don’t mind at all, knowing full well how gross in love they are. It’s not just matching tattoos they’ve inked themselves with either, but also meaningful little doodles they get on their own, letters for their family members and scraps of words, or dumb things they’ve dared each other to do. They’re terrible enablers for one another, but Harry wouldn’t have it any other way. There’s no one out there better for him than Louis.

The kettle starts to whistle, shaking Harry’s thoughts away from Louis and the pictures on the fridge. He carefully carries the cups of tea he pours to the living room and settles back on the couch with Louis. It’s a lazy Saturday afternoon and they have yet to change into real clothes, still lounging around in the mismatched ones they threw on after their morning romp. It’s the best thing in the world to Harry.

“Thanks, love,” Louis says with a smile, trading his teacup for the front section of the newspaper he’s holding, keeping the sports section for himself.

Harry shakes the pages out gently, not wanting to crinkle the comics in the back. His eyes skim over something about parliament and a roundup of the latest football transfers before he reaches a story about two men who just got married, having finally found their soulmate matches at eighty-five years old. It makes Harry smile. Louis teases him for being so soft on babies and marriage, but Louis doesn’t even know about the Google Alerts Harry has set up.

Today though, the article also makes Harry think. If he and Louis are sitting here with their elbows brushing, reading the newspaper together in their twenties, it’s not hard to imagine the next eighty years going much the same way. He thinks that some of the only things missing from their fridge door are a save the date announcement and pictures from their own wedding.

It’s not something they’ve talked about explicitly, more an event just waiting on the horizon for whenever they decide they need an official honeymoon period apart from the unofficial one they’ve never really left since the day they met. Harry knows he’s going to marry Louis some day soon, as certain as he knows he’ll wake up next to him tomorrow. But suddenly, he feels like he doesn’t really have a reason to wait at all.

“Hey, Lou?” Harry asks, breaking the silence tentatively.

“Yeah?”

“We should get married.”

Slowly, Louis folds his paper down to meet Harry’s eyes. He raises his eyebrows and nods. “Sure,” he replies, as casually as if he was agreeing to dinner plans.

He brings the paper back up to continue reading, but Harry can _feel_ the burning grin Louis has hidden behind the pages. He smiles to himself and holds up his own paper to continue the charade. Not even a minute later it’s being ripped out his hands and cast off to the side. Harry’s not bothered though, as he now has a lapful of Louis and hands tugging him into a hot, wet kiss. Their tongues slide together, and Harry is helpless against the small sounds he makes in the back of his throat. He wraps his arms around Louis’ back to hold him in place where he straddles Harry’s thighs, his hands roaming up and down the soft cotton of Louis’ shirt, across the planes of his shoulders. Just as Harry begins to move his hips up to meet him, Louis pulls off.

“Of course I’ll marry you,” Louis pants, his palms coming to rest softly against Harry’s neck. “But Harry, that was the _worst_ proposal I’ve ever heard.”

“Heyyyy,” Harry protests. “Don’t make fun of me after you’ve just agreed to marry me.”

“I will make fun of you, and I’ll do it for the rest of our lives because we’re going to get _married_.”

That makes Harry laugh, as light and happy as a bell. He pulls Louis back in, kissing him so fiercely his eyebrows furrow, like he’s trying to pass on some of his overflowing love to Louis with his lips, his tongue, the grip of his hands.

“I still want a ring, you fucker,” Louis says when they separate again to catch their breath. He punctuates this by rolling his hips down, the pads of his fingers pressing firm into the lines of Harry’s hips under his shirt.

“I’ll get you one, I promise,” Harry replies, eyelashes fluttering.

He doesn’t mention the small blue bread tie he has tucked away in his pants drawer, the same one he’d twisted around Louis’ ring finger one night when he’d been too drunk to notice. It had seemed so pressingly important to have Louis’ ring size that night. They’d only been together for a few months at the time, but right now Harry’s congratulating himself on being so enormously clever and forward thinking.

“I hate promises,” Louis says, brushing their lips together again.

Harry breathes a quiet laugh into Louis’ mouth. He remembers. “Well you can always count on me, love,” he says. Because if there’s one forever Harry is counting on, it’s this one.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with me if you made it all the way here. I do hope you enjoyed the fic, and thank you for reading!
> 
> My [tumblr](http://mooodlighting.tumblr.com/) and a [rebloggable post](http://mooodlighting.tumblr.com/post/112997486965/like-real-people-do-by-moodlighting-art-by) if anyone is interested!


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